Fan Girl
by GeekMom
Summary: Rick Castle has a fan - a mother whose daughter is embarrassed by and impatient with her mom's fan-girling until she's not. Thanks and credit to Andrew Marlowe for creating the characters, backstories and mythologies for which I fan-girl.
1. Discovery

_A/N - Should be a short story about a subject that wouldn't leave me alone._

 _Hope you like it._

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Fan Girl**

 **Chapter 1**

 **Discovery**

"Why are we here, Mom?"

"I thought you'd like something and I am absolutely out of anything good to read that I haven't read a thousand times." Her daughter rolled her eyes at her mother's exaggeration. Ten had been interesting so far; her daughter's teens were surely going to be the death of her. "Come on," she said as she as she propelled them through the doors against the people exiting and into the warmth and brightness of the store.

"It's crowded," the ten-year-old captain obvious whined.

"It's Christmas time. Books make excellent gifts." Jo frowned; her Christmas cheer was slowly being siphoned away by the incessant moaning of a girl who, according to her, unfairly had to delay her wants and needs and desires. Katie hadn't pointed out the fact that they were supposed to be ice-skating for at least five minutes. Johanna had never been one to cave to the whine tactic. In fact, it grated on her nerves. She and her husband had always seen to it that the wants and desires of their only child were fulfilled, within reason. They tried not to spoil her, but she was a good kid: responsible and caring and was frequently rewarded. This cajoling and practically a three-year-old's temper tantrum strategy were new and Jo was not under any circumstance going to give in to the new ploy. She and her husband had also made sacrifices for said child, as any loving parent does, but Jo wanted this and Katie would need to be patient or learn patience or suffer her first grounding.

"I thought you said we were going ice-skating," Katie muttered. Six minutes.

"Katherine Houghton Beckett," Jo's whispered incantation of a full name got attention, but her daughter seemed determined to ignore her. Jo spun the girl so she was looking directly at her. Katie couldn't help but be entranced in the anger swirling in her mother's wide eyes. "We are staying here until I find a book and until I say we are going. I want to go ice-skating as much as you do, but we are here now and if I hear another whiny word about it, we'll be going home next. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," Katie's contrite answer wasn't as satisfying as Johanna would have liked.

In a softer voice she tried to explain. "Look, sweetheart. I need my books to escape from all the stuff I see at work. Please let me have a few moments to find a good mystery to take my mind off of things, okay?" Katie nodded. "Hey, look, it's story time," pre-empting Katie's eye roll, she added, "No, look," she pointed to what appeared to be a teenybopper poetry-like slam. "It's _The Baby-Sitters Club_." The book series had been a favorite of Katie's for a few months and as luck and the Christmas sales marketing would have it, the author, Ann Martin was reading the next installment in that store in five minutes.

"Can I go, Mom, please?"

Johanna raised an eyebrow at her daughter's abrupt change of behavior and was inclined to deny based on her earlier performances, but the truth was that this would help keep Katie occupied for a little while and Jo could seek out the escapism she needed in peace.

"Yes, but here are the rules: you stay here until I come get you. No one else except Daddy, okay?"

"Yes Mom." Katie started toward the group. "Oh and Katie?" She waited until her daughter turned around to face her again. "Be respectful and courteous." Her daughter nodded, barely controlling the dreaded eye roll compulsion.

* * *

Free to roam unencumbered by pre-adolescent frustration, Jo perused her favorite section of the store: Mystery and Crime. She had always been a fan of the genre, well since she had fallen in love with the character of Pete Cochran on _The Mod Squad_ in the late sixties. She had even considered concentrating her law practice in criminal justice, but her love for the underdog won out. She couldn't even feed her addiction through her husband, Jim's practice. He was strictly corporate law, which was a euphemism for boring paper pushing day in and day out in her opinion, but she would never speak so callously of her husband's work…out loud, it just wasn't for her. She instead visited her heroes and cheered for them as they won over evil every time in the pages of the thrillers she so enjoyed.

She lingered in the mystery section, fingering old favorites like Poe and Conan-Doyle, seeing if any spark of desire would magically lead her to another spell-binding story. She felt nothing: even favored characters like Miss Marple or Nero Wolfe did not beckon her today. She needed new; something she hadn't read before, something different. She stopped at the New York Times bestseller display toward the front of the store. Danielle Steele; no she wasn't in the mood. King, Michener, Clancy — all the usual suspects were unsurprisingly there. Jimmy Buffett's _Tales from Margaritaville_ was a surprise, but again it didn't peak her interest. She had never been a tequila drinker.

The next down, number eleven, maybe, _'No,'_ she thought, arguing with her impulses. _'An author's debut book?'_ Did she really want to take a chance on an unknown quantity? This was going to be the book that occupied her free time during the holidays. She picked the book up and turned it over. She was startled to see that the author was young, at least his cover photo was. She opened the back cover and read about Richard Castle. Johanna liked to get to know the people she considered inviting into her home, usually into her bed or bath. She was old-fashioned like that.

"Are you going to buy that?" a brash, nasally woman in high heels, a sharp business suit and dark hair pulled back into a severe bun, that had stood uncomfortably close to her asked, looking pointedly at the copy of _In a Hail of Bullets_ in her hand. She was not a shopper, Johanna deduced, no outerwear. She probably worked for the bookstore, maybe a manager.

"I was considering it for my book club."

"Oh."

"Why? Do you know this author? I've never seen his work before."

"Honey, of course you haven't seen him before: that's his debut and he's eleven on the list. Of course that's dropped a bit. When it came out in September, it flew to four."

"Must be pretty good, huh?"

"It's great and I don't even like the crime genre that much."

"Thanks," Jo said holding out her hand. "I'll try it, but if it's not all you say it is, I'll be back and you'll owe me a good recommendation."

"Back?" The woman's eyes glazed over for a second. "Oh you think I work here."

"Yes, I guess I assumed…"

"Look you don't have to take my word for it." The woman was steering Johanna down to the end of an aisle where a dwindling queue of people stood clutching the very same book. "Come on," she said and guided her to the side of the line.

"Oh, I don't have the time to wait in that line for a book. I have to pick up my daughter." She looked at her watch. She still had fifteen minutes.

"I like you and I want you to buy that book, so come with me."

After more navigating through the various shelving and displays of the store, Johanna found herself standing behind a huge cardboard rectangle. She peeked around the front and saw that it was an enlarged depiction of the book. On the other side of the sign were a table and the front of the line. She wasn't in a position to see the author, but assumed it was the young man from the back of the book.

"What's your name?"

"Um, Johanna, Joanna Beckett."

"Come on Johanna, I'm Paula and this," they emerged from the back of the sign, "is Richard Castle. I don't work for the store, I work for him."

The author didn't look back at the sound of his name. He continued to smile and sign each book put in front of him, but he also took the time to make eye contact and speak to each person. Johanna liked that already.

"Ricky," Paula's adenoidal Queens accent broke through the din and he excused himself and turned around. He seemed to be slightly annoyed at having been interrupted, but it quickly melted off his face.

"Paula." He smiled politely in Johanna's direction. "What is it, I'm a little busy."

"I'm practicing my art," she said sweetly. "This is Johanna Beckett. She's a fan of the genre, but not yours…" He was mildly surprised and raised his eyebrows. Most of the people who wanted to meet him were fans of his writing or other things, he'd quickly come to realize. Paula continued, "Yet; she hasn't read _Bullets_ yet, but she likes to get to know the authors she reads and recommends to her book club. So, introduce yourself."

The poor man looked back and forth between Johanna and Paula as if they were both nuts. Jo couldn't stand it anymore and decided to let him off the hook when he walked toward her, his hand extended and said, "I'm Rick, I'll just be another couple of minutes and then we can talk, okay?"

Jo looked up. He was tall and he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Jim's were blue, but the young man in front of her possessed piercing, stunning eyes and a nice, if lopsided smile. "Um…okay," she said dumbly.

* * *

Ten minutes later she was walking across the bookstore to pick up Katie.

"Come on, Sweetheart, it's time to go ice skate."

"Mom?"

"Yeah, Baby."

"Why are you smiling like that?"


	2. Perfect

_A/N - Thank you to everyone who has followed, reviewed and added this little story to your favorites. I believe I've answered all of your reviews, except for guests, but I am also grateful for your input._

 _For those of you who have read my work before, this will not surprise you, but I believe this will be more like six chapters instead of four. We'll see. This wasn't even a planned chapter, it just begged to be written._

 _Please enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Fan Girl**

 **Chapter 2**

 **Perfect**

It was a perfect day. The sun was out; the breeze moved the warm air through the hills and valleys, chasing the paved pathways through the tunnels and over the great protruding boulders that seemed to emerge from the earth like surfacing whales in this part of the park. It was a clear day; one that made all things seem more colorful and sharp.

Perfect.

Johanna sat on a well-worn, green slatted park bench, which had been dedicated to 'My beloved and true Malcolm – May the adventure never end' and wondered what sorts of adventures Malcolm and his lover had enjoyed. She watched her perfect husband and perfect daughter attempt the forty-seventh launch of their less than perfect kite in the field. It was less than perfect because of its adamant and petulant refusal to fly. Katie was determined. Jim was exasperated.

"Oh my god," a woman huffed as she plopped onto the bench next to Jo. "I'm sorry," she said looking over to her bench-mate. "Is this seat taken? I'll only be a moment."

Jo shook her head as she glanced at the interloper. She did a double take, certain she had seen the woman before. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

The woman turned her head. "I suppose. It'd be better inside, someplace with air conditioning," she grumbled while fanning herself, "preferably with someone massaging my feet: my ugly, horribly swollen feet."

Jo blinked and upon closer inspection, realized that the woman was pregnant. Not that she would ever ask, but she looked to be about six months along. The woman had long red hair tucked into a ponytail under a wide brimmed hat and wore large 'Jackie-O' sunglasses.

"I'm Johanna," she said offering her hand. "My daughter and husband are trying to fly a kite."

"I'm Meredith. My son or daughter is currently jumping on my bladder and my husband is working," she made air quotes as she scathingly said 'working' and then waved a hand the direction from whence she came. "Over there somewhere."

Johanna reached into her bag and pulled out a water bottle. "Here, you look like you could use this." She handed the bottle to Meredith.

"Thank you. You are so kind. There aren't enough people who are kind in the world."

"I just think you have to keep your eyes open."

"You sound like my husband."

The conversation died away for a bit and the two women sat quietly watching the attempted aeronautics in the field. Katie and Jim sat down and worked on modifying the design. Jo reached into her bag and pulled out a book: _Hell Hath No Fury_. It wasn't her favorite Castle book, but she was determined to read it again this summer, entirely convinced she had missed some important nuance. Why else would he write about the subject matter? Her book club had lost faith, but Jo never would.

"Oh my god," her bench mate muttered derisively. "You like that book?"

Johanna sat up straighter preparing to defend her reading material and her favorite author. "Yes, I do. You don't?"

"It's not his best work," she snorted.

"I feel like he was just in a different place when he wrote it. I love all of Richard Castle's books."

Meredith grinned, but there was no joy only spitefulness. "Well, he _was_ in a different place. I don't think a single word in that book was written when he wasn't under the influence of one thing or another."

Johanna turned toward the very pejorative person on her left. One of her pet peeves was when supposed fans regularly celebrity bashed. Giving unwanted opinions and doling out judgments, based on rumor and gossip and assumptions as if they actually knew the person. Just because a person is in the public eye doesn't give the public the right to blather and drag their name through the mud. Besides, this was Richard Castle. "That's a horrible thing to say. You don't have any idea," she indignantly fumed.

Meredith closed her mouth and wolfishly smiled. "I do, actually," she said sickly sweetly. "I'm sorry; I didn't give you my full name earlier." She held out her hand again. "I'm Meredith Castle. Richard is my husband." She said it as if the phrase 'Richard is my husband.' was some sort of stepping stool or platform on which she elevated herself.

Johanna's brain decided at that moment to access the photos she had seen on the Ledger's page six of their wedding. She remembered feeling so happy for him, that he had found a beautiful woman, an actress, a red haired actress. _'Oh god,'_ she thought.

Meredith watched Jo make the connections with an air of superior amusement on her face. "He'll be along if he ever gets done with whatever the hell he's doing."

"What's he doing?" Jo asked in a small voice. Her favorite author was nearby, in the park. She had met him before, of course, but as one in hundreds receiving a smidgen of his time and attention as he signed his name and offered a weary smile.

She scoffed, "Researching: it's ridiculous really. He watches people. He says it helps with his character development. Certainly didn't help _those_ characters." She nodded toward Johanna's book. "Of course, I didn't read the whole thing anyway."

Johanna murmured some sort of acknowledging noise and proceeded to bury her nose back in the ninth chapter, but she didn't read a word. Her mind was going over the inconsistencies in front of her. Richard Castle seemed like he was a nice man, a kind man, but the woman sitting next to her, occasionally moaning, did not possess either quality. Jo would never even consider tearing down her husband's work to anyone, let alone a complete stranger. Did she find Jim's work fascinating? Absolutely not, but she would never belittle him like that.

Richard Castle seemed genuinely gracious and warm the five times she'd made it to the front of the line for his signature on his work. This woman was shallow and indifferent at best, self-absorbed and malicious at worst. Jo couldn't figure out why he would have picked her. There was no accounting for with whom you fell in love, she supposed. The heart wants what the heart wants, as the old saying goes.

A soft snore from her left caused her to look at Meredith. She leaned her head against the tree close to the bench and was now dead to the world. Jo remembered that feeling of utter exhaustion and needing multiple cat-naps when she carried Katie. Her eyes drifted to her family. Katie was on her knees in deep concentration over the recalcitrant kite, while Jim had retreated to a nearby tree, sitting while leaning his back against its hundred year old wisdom. He seemed to know when she looked their way: their eyes locked, he smiled and he waved. Either he was staring at her the entire time, which if it had been anyone else, would have been creepy, or they both sought out the comfort of each other's gaze at regular intervals. It was a wonder that they ever made it out of the house when they were newlyweds.

"I'm sorry about this." A deep voice above sneakers stepping into her space drew her attention back to her little oasis of a bench. "Mer…" He shook the woman gently and then sighed.

Johanna looked all the way up the tall man's body to his face, which was eclipsed by the sun streaking through the tall branches of Meredith's pillow. About all she could make out was the dark hair haloing his head, a tee shirt with some kind of cartoon character on the front and nicely fitting jeans. She squinted.

He looked behind him and up through the leaves. "Oh," he chuckled. "I'm sorry: neither my big head nor my ego is generally so big that it eclipses the sun…" He took a step to the side and Johanna's breath caught in her throat. "I'm Rick," he said holding out his hand. Jo sat stupidly offering nothing but her open mouth for catching flies. Richard Castle smiled and looked at the book precariously balanced on her numb lap. "I am truly sorry, now," he said in almost a whisper while a broad smile lit up his whole face as if he'd just heard the world's funniest joke. He turned back to Meredith and softly stroked the side of her cheek as he tried to wake her again.

"Are you…"

He smiled again as he waited for Jo to finish. When she didn't say anymore he offered, "Late? Yup." His right eyebrow quirked up in amusement.

Jo seemed to come back to herself. "I…I'm so sorry Mr. Castle."

He had squatted next to his somnolent wife. "Sorry for what? I'm the bozo that left her here until she entered her catatonic state." At Jo's look of alarm, he raised his hand. "No, no, I'm just kidding, she's fine: just really tired all the time."

"Second trimester?"

"Yeah, the end. Six months on Tuesday or there about. You never told me my wife's babysitter's name."

"Oh," she placed a hand on her chest. "I'm Johanna."

"That's a beautiful name. Hmm: Johanna Castle." As Jo felt her eyebrows slide under her bangs, he chuckled again. "Haven't decided on names yet, so when I hear a new one, I try them out."

"Do you know the baby's sex?"

"Nope: Meredith does, but I like the mystery." He waggled his eyebrows. "Is that your family?" He indicated a still absorbed Katie and a wary Jim, watching both his daughter and his wife, speaking to a stranger in Central Park. Jo nodded. Castle waved at the man.

Jo also waved that she was all right to her husband. "Why did you apologize before, Mr. Castle?"

"Rick, please," he said as he tilted his head toward Meredith. "We're practically family: what with you sharing a maternally allied communal park bench." He smiled again. Jo could tell he smiled a lot. She knew he was young; his mid-twenties she understood, but he already looked like he had developed faint laugh lines at the corners of his lively blue eyes.

Johanna blushed deeply eliciting another smile from her favorite author.

"I was apologizing for that less than enthusiastic effort of mine that you're reading. You don't look like you'd be easily led astray from masters of the genre to that drivel."

"Oh no," she gushed. "It may not be your best, but it's still a good story."

He narrowed his eyes. "I may have to change my opinion about you, Johanna." He tilted his head, assessing her. "You're a mom," he smiled as he looked at the young teenager in the grass. He brought his gaze back to her. "But you're also a professional. Your clothes, even dusting around, hanging in the park clothes are a higher quality than most. Matter of fact, your whole presentation screams quality: from your haircut to your nails. The only blaring incongruent fact about you is your choice in books." Johanna blushed hearing his appraisal, but then laughed with him in his self-deprecating assessment of his book. "I'd guess you live and work right here in the city. You don't look like a tourist." Indicating her family with a nod he said, "Tourists don't treat the park like their back yard." He smiled again and wiggled his eyebrows mischievously. "Am I close?"

"You're very good," she said, which earned her another illuminating smile. "Maybe you missed your calling," she began and he frowned. "Maybe you should be a profiler for the FBI or something."

"Ha! I am close and thank you, that'd be cool, but unfortunately I can't work for the FBI." He dropped his eyes to the pavement before returning to hers. "I had a wild youth and acquired a police record along the way. Besides, I really like my dress code better than suits and ties." He smiled naughtily. "If I want, I can write in my jammies." He stood. "This has been lovely, Johanna, but I have to get sleepy here back home," he said while reaching for his wife's hand again. He turned back to Jo abruptly. "May I see your book?" he asked while reaching in his back pocket. He squatted again and opened the book. He looked up at her. "I was going to sign it for you, but I see we've already met." He studied her face as if trying to remember it. "I'm sorry I don't remember. I see…"

"Hundreds if not thousands of people, all wanting your signature," she finished for him. "I understand."

Rick smiled and reopened the book and wrote on the same page that he'd signed a few months prior. Meredith opened her eyes as he handed the book back to Jo.

"Ugh, it's about time you got here. Do you have any idea how hard this park bench has been on my back?" He helped her to her feet.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he teased as he leaned over to kiss his wife. She moved her head at the last minute, ensuring he'd only kiss her cheek as she stood.

Jo supposed that if he were her husband, he'd get all the kisses he wanted and looked disdainfully at Meredith as she waddled away for missing those opportunities.

Rick observed the emotions on Johanna's face and grinned. He held out his hand which Jo readily accepted. "Johanna, it was a pleasure to meet and talk with you today. "Remind me of today next time you've wasted your time in line waiting on me, okay?" He lifted her hand a brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

"Richard," Meredith scolded from a few yards away.

"It's been lovely," he said as he dropped her hand.

Johanna watched them walk away, sighed as she sat back down on the bench and smiled when she opened the book and read what he'd added.

"Dearest Johanna,

Your smile made this perfect sunny day even brighter. I hope the next time I see you, your taste in literature has improved." The original signature occupied the next line and then he finished underneath. "You're a wonderful babysitter, if that lawyer thing doesn't work out. — RC" He ended it with a winking smiley face.

A whoop and the sound of a high five caught her attention from the field. The kite was flying. Jo looked at her family and into the eyes of her watchful husband, smiled and whispered, "Perfect."


	3. Pulp Fiction

_A/N - Thanks again to everyone who has read, followed or added this story to their favorites. Your encouragement and reception is awesome!_

 _This chapter was a bit of a challenge as I am not and have not been a teenage girl for a very long while. I hope it's realistic._

 _Please Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Fan Girl**

 **Chapter 3**

 **Pulp Fiction**

"Please, Katie?"

"It's Katherine and no."

Katherine (no longer Katie or even Kate) Beckett folded her arms over her chest obstinately as she plopped down on the couch, folding her long legs under her and glared at her mother.

Jo looked helplessly at her husband who sat in his chair on the opposite side of the living room and back to her daughter. She had been hoping that this would be a good weekend. "But…"

"No, Mother. I'm not going to join your little Richard Castle fan club." The venom spiked throughout her teenaged daughter's tone was unmistakable. Jim shrugged his shoulders and sighed in a defeated way and returned to the paper. He had long ago learned to steer clear of disagreements between his wife and his daughter. There was no upside to taking a side when it came to non-parental issues.

"But you've never even given his books a chance," Johanna tried a different approach. She had invited Katherine, the daughter previously known to her parents as Katie, to her mystery book club meeting. Katie loved reading and Jo and Jim agreed that the shared interest might be a way for Jo to regain some ground with her fifteen year old. Their Katie seemed to be drifting beyond the reach of either of them recently. Jim blamed the new boyfriend. He felt that she was too young for a declared boyfriend, but Jo had convinced him that she needed the freedom to make her own mistakes or she'd continue to push the envelope of her upbringing.

"They're pulp," Katherine snorted derisively. "I don't want to waste my time with that trash when I could be reading the classics, real literature or poetry."

Jo picked up her latest Castle thriller and held it out, as she would evidence to the jury. "They're great stories, not pulp. Smart and funny, and justice is always served. Your dad even likes them."

"The bumbling ridiculous bad guys lose and the heroic, but flawed good guys win. That's a second-rate television show, Mother: that's not real life."

It was her mother's turn to scoff. "Please enlighten me, Katherine." Jo sat down primly on the edge of the sofa and folded her hands in her lap, not quite mocking her daughter, but mocking her daughter, nonetheless. "What is real life?"

"I just know it's not getting wrapped up in the mediocre fantasy land of some author you have the hots for."

Jim piped up, "That's enough of that tone toward your mother, Katie." Jim wouldn't but in to his wife's business unless someone belittled or insulted her. It didn't matter whom.

Katherine rolled her eyes. Her father refused to acknowledge that she had grown up or to address her as such.

Jo turned toward Katie. "I just wish we could share this."

Katherine grimaced. "So the both of us could fawn over a guy that's way too old for me and way too young for you? It's embarrassing." She shook her head and turned a palm up toward Jim. "Really, Father: how can you just sit there and let her drool over ol' blue eyes over there? Aren't you jealous of him?" She indicated the bookshelves proudly displaying nine Richard Castle thrillers. Her mother never missed a debut; had been to six book signings and was an official member of the writer's ultra-creepy fan club and received a newsletter every other month. On top of all that, she told anyone who would listen about the magical meeting in the park.

Jim Beckett sighed and looked over his reading glasses at his daughter. "Your mother is a grown woman who decides what she does or does not like. I'm certainly not jealous. I'm very secure in our relationship, Katie." His daughter began to correct him, but he held up his palm. He was a quiet man, but could command a room. "I know she is not going to…" he stopped, not wanting to educate his daughter too soon. "Look, if his books and stories bring her happiness, who am I to say no. I'd be an idiot for trying. I want her to be happy all the time and I'll do whatever I need to make that happen. That goes for you, too, even though that seems to be an extraordinarily challenging task these days. Besides, your mother says he's a nice man."

"Have you seen the papers?" Katherine scoffed as she stomped across the room and picked up the Sunday Times from the ottoman in front of her father's chair. The pencil he had rested on the crossword clattered to the floor. She leafed through the pages until she discovered an article and thrust it under her father's nose: a gossip page photo and an accompanying article of Richard Castle and a blonde woman exiting a popular mid-town club. "I don't think this is nice." Sarcasm dripped off the final word like drops of melting water from an icicle. "Unless everything you've ever taught me about being nice is wrong."

Jim peered at the picture, although his interest, if he was honest was drawn to the stunning woman hanging on the author's arm. He knew, from Jo's reports that the celebrity author had divorced so it was no surprise to see him out and about as the playboy again. "First, if you are going to become a lawyer, you can't make snap judgements; you have to weigh all the evidence."

Jo added, "And even then, you probably won't have the whole story."

"You know, Katie," Jim said, "don't judge a book by its cover." He was pleased that he had quickly thought to use that expression, clichéd as it was. It fit the situation and he grinned.

Katherine was having none of it. "The evidence suggests that this is not a role model or someone suitable for _anyone's_ hero worship."

"Oh my god, Katie. Fine, fine: you don't have to go, but please stop making judgements about which you know nothing." Her mother's uncharacteristically raised voice drew her attention. "Just…just go to your room."

"Fine," she screeched as she stomped down the hallway. Jim squinted and hunched his shoulders in preparation for the house shaking slam. He wasn't disappointed.

Jo sat back down on the edge of the couch after picking up the discarded papers and handing them back to her husband. The morning had been pleasant. They had laughed and joked as a family, all finding Jim's stories about the latest patent applications he'd managed and the crazy things people invented. It was a small part of his practice, but an entertaining one. They'd enjoyed a leisurely brunch and she felt like maybe they would escape any of the strife and disjointedness the family had been suffering recently.

Jim sighed deeply and heavily, he took his reading glasses off his nose, folded them and he looked over at his wife.

"Are you okay," she asked.

"Me? Yeah, but I wasn't the target this time." That past Thursday, he'd received an earful from his daughter on the gradual dumbing down of America because of people watching television like Weird Science and Duckman. He liked Weird Science: it was perfect escapism in the form of a super model who granted wishes. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm alright. I remember being fifteen. Katie's…" Jo blinked her eyelid rapidly and corrected, "I mean _Katherine_ is just trying to figure out who she is. High school is a wonderful, frightening and confusing time, especially the first few months."

"I just wish she would figure it out without the histrionics."

Jo smiled and crossed the living room to sit in his lap. "That was an impressive word, Mr. Beckett. Maybe you should be a writer."

"Twenty-four, across, Mrs. Beckett." He kissed her. "And I don't have to write: I already have my fan girl."

Jo put her hands on his chest and asked, "It doesn't really bother you, does it?"

"What?" Jim had his lap full of his wife. He had just kissed her and been kissed back by her and there was quiet in the living room. How could he possibly be bothered?

"My penchant for Richard Castle's books and being a fan of his."

Jim grinned, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Oh," he hummed. "Bothered, huh?" He exhaled forcefully. "Let's examine the evidence for the prosecution, counselor. Exhibit one: he is a good-looking man. Even I noticed."

Jo raised an eyebrow. "Do I have to be worried?"

He placed his fingers on her lips. "Shush, I'm making a case. Exhibit two: he is a talented author." He gestured toward the books on the shelf. "Exhibit three: you agree with the aforementioned conclusions in items one and two." She nodded. Jim continued, "For the defense: hypothetically speaking, would you still like the author as much if the talent were contained in a less than…appealing form? Say something or someone as repulsive as Dallas Green taking over management of the Yankees."

Johanna's jaw dropped. "You take that back: that's sacrilege."

"Agreed, but would you still adore the books?"

"I love the stories. They can whisk me away and immerse me in something other than watching the little guy as he gets swallowed and run over by societal machinations."

Jo looked at her husband for his reaction. He was smiling. "One more question: Do you remember that movie a couple of years ago with Robert Redford and Demi Moore?"

She squinted at the wall, trying to recall. "Um… _Indecent Proposal_."

"Yeah. If Richard Castle were to knock on the door and offer you a million dollars, would you sleep with him?"

"In the movie, Redford offered to pay Moore's husband." She stated and then fixed him with a scorching, unashamedly carnal stare. "Would _you_ accept the offer? Since it would be made to you?"

Jim searched his wife's eyes. "I plead the fifth, your honor." Jo raised an eyebrow. He shook his head. "You know it doesn't bother me at all and I would never sell you or your considerable charms and talents to the highest bidder: you can't put a price on perfection."

"Oh well, that was just horrible and cheesy. Stick with the crossword. I don't think Richard Castle has to worry about you becoming a writer." She playfully slapped his chest. Looking down the hallway, she sighed. "I guess it's time to see if I've been pardoned for my crimes against humanity."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, it will seem as though we're ganging up on her."

"Good: I didn't really want to go and aren't we? That's part of our job as her parents, right?"

"It's good to know that you have my back."

He grinned. "Always," he said and smacked her backside. "Into the breach!"

Johanna knocked softly on her daughter's door, bracing herself for another confrontation. It seemed to be all they did any more. Fight about anything and everything. If Jo said that grass was green, Katie would dispute it and in the process, also try to belittle her mother's understanding or opinion.

"Kate…Katherine. Please open the door so that we can talk."

She heard, "Go away," mumbled from the other side of the door.

Jo inhaled and grasped the doorknob, letting herself into the room which had recently been transformed from the soft pinks and lavenders of fairy princesses and tea parties to bright purples, teal and acid greens peeking out from under black light posters of grunge bands, teen heartthrobs and motorcycles with copies of _Sin City_ comic books strewn on the floor and desk along with literature compilations and poetry volumes.

Katie was stretched across the bed, her head buried under her pillow.

"Can we talk?" Jo asked.

"It's a free country." She hadn't moved yet.

Jo crossed her arms over her chest, defensively. "I want to know when I became the enemy."

Katie sat up and looked at her mother. "You're not the enemy, you just don't understand."

"Really? You think I don't understand what you're feeling right now?"

"No: you couldn't."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you've got this perfect life, with a perfect job that you were meant to do and you had perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect husband who has all the same perfect things you do."

"Katie, my life isn't perfect."

"And then you go on and on about how great those perfect books are and it's humiliating."

"The books provide me with some escapism and yes, even fantasy. There's nothing wrong with that. But, honey, my life is far from perfect. I read to try to balance the tough parts. What I read doesn't always have to be life changing, but I like it to be entertaining. That's all."

"Why do you have to gush over him, though?"

"Why do you gush over Joey Lawrence or Nick Carter?" She pointed to the hearts she'd drawn on their posters.

The blush overtook Katie's cheeks faster than a tsunami swamps a South Seas island. "Mom, I don't…"

Jo indicated the Tiger Beat magazine in amongst the comic books. "It's fun, honey. That's all. It makes me feel giddy and feminine and silly, which is different from the solemnity I have to bring to my job."

Katie was silent for a moment while she thought about all her mother had said until Jo asked, "What has you so upset? Has something happened at school?"

The fifteen year old looked down at her hands. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be. Stuyvesant is a great school, but I don't fit in. Whatever I like is wrong. My hair is wrong, my clothes: everything."

"That's just high school." She sat on the bed next to her and played with her daughter's long locks of hair. "No one fits in. Some people fake it better than others do, but no one is completely comfortable in their own skin at your age. Give it a couple of months, you'll find your niche."

Katie leaned into her mother's touch and calmed while relishing the familiar repetitive motion.

"I just wanted to spend some extra time with you, but if you need space to figure things out, I'm okay with that. But please think about reading his books with me, maybe you need a little universe where you can escape, too."

"I'm sorry for yelling, Mom." Katie hugged her mother. "I'm sorry for putting his books down and you."

"I know you didn't mean it and thank you. Don't be so quick to judge, okay?" Katie nodded on Jo's shoulder. Jo kissed the top of her head. "I'm going to have to go, if I'm going to make the meeting. Are you okay, now?"

"Better, thanks."

Jo stood and walked to the door. "Mom," Katie called. "Can I still come?"


	4. Native New Yorkers

_A/N - You guys are the best!_

 _The response to this story has been stunning. Clearly, readers want Johanna stories. I'm humbled and honored to be able to write for such a wonderful fandom._

 _Thanks to everyone who has followed and put this on their favorites list. Also, I'm so gratified every time someone tells me that they read this and then wanted to read more of my work. Unbelievable and so incredibly heart-warming. As I wrote at the beginning: you are the best! Thanks!_

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Fan Girl**

 **Chapter 4**

 **Native New Yorkers**

Johanna sat with her back to the little bistro at a small black, wrought-iron patio table enjoying the warmth of the sun seeping from the metal furniture and her indulgent coffee house beverage. Usually, she took her coffee with cream and sugar, no flavoring or foam or gimmicks that had become popular among young professionals, but had splurged for it on the beautiful spring day. She took the afternoon off after her case had been thrown out of court that morning; she walked by the inviting little restaurant and decided to unwind with a coffee and her book for the couple of hours before she had to be home.

Jim would be home at the regular time, a few moments before six, as always. The great thing about corporate law was the mostly normal working hours. She was not sure if her daughter would be there or not. Katie was experimenting with her newfound autonomy, trying on personas like outfits and determining what fit her. It seemed that she was a different person every week. It was dizzying. She continually reassured Jim that their girl was still under the hair dye and heavy make-up, leather jackets and torn jeans. Thankfully she'd broken up with Tobias, a grunge rocker who smelled like clove cigarettes and wet flannel, which her father had forbade Katie from seeing. Consequently, being the contrary creature she'd become, she did exactly the opposite and dated the poor boy out of spite. No matter how many times Jo had warned Jim, he'd prohibit and she would rebel: lather, rinse, repeat.

Katie wasn't remarkably different from the teen Jo had been therefore she understood the need to rebel. Jim only had his older-by-two-years sister Theresa as a model of female adolescence. She was sure that the hypercritical, reproachful woman had been as pinched and severe as a teenager as she behaved as an adult. He didn't have any real experience with a girl's struggle to become the woman she was meant to be; consequently he had to trust her.

She wasn't always right. Their latest blunder was giving Katie the sovereignty to make and save money to purchase a motorcycle. They told her that she would have to make and save the money for both the bike and the insurance. They both were sure that she would fall short of her goal that they wouldn't have to worry about their daughter tooling around the city on a potential death trap that outweighed her by six –hundred pounds. They should have known better. Katie had always applied herself, whether it was school or other activities. She was now the proud and somewhat arrogant owner of a Ninety-four Harley Softail. Jo prayed every time she left the house that she would never have to tell her daughter that she told her so regarding that motorcycle.

Deciding to take her own mother's oft ignored advice; she put away her worries. The world gave enough troubles; there was no sense in borrowing more. She took the afternoon off to relax after a stressful and less than satisfactory conclusion of her case and enjoy the day. They lost in court. She let a family down, had lost to the unstoppable cogs and steamrollers of progress. Sighing, she fished her book out of her bag. In among the file folders containing legal briefs, photos, witness statements and depositions, Richard Castle waited. He patiently waited for her to seek out his unwavering devotion to right and justice, to help her put the injustice of the world in perspective and give her hope to fight the good fight again.

She was deeply ensconced in the small neo-hippie community of Fair Haven, Vermont, at wits end along with Chief Olson and Deputy Ruiz. She hadn't looked up in several chapters, not really believing that she was still sitting in Lower Manhattan, but alert that a scarecrow wielding hatchets could unquestionably come around the corner at any moment. Her bubble of fiction burst when a couple of tourists' conversation caught her ear. They stood directly next to the table, but on the sidewalk on the other side of the steel and vinyl partition advertising the bistro's fantastic and authentic pizza to the rest of the world.

They certainly were a pair. A father and daughter duo she'd guess. The man wore an open plaid shirt revealing an 'I Climbed to the Top of the Empire State' tee shirt, complete with a cartoony, big-lipped King Kong hanging on the spire of the building. The daughter wore an 'I heart New York' pink hoodie sweatshirt. They both wore baseball caps: the girl's emblazoned proudly and properly with the New York Yankees 'NY' sat atop her shimmering red hair. A single coppery braid stuck through the vent in the back, contrasting the dark blue of the cap. The man obviously had no idea what was acceptable hear gear in the city: in Johanna's opinion. His obnoxiously bright blue hat, which he wore backwards, bore much more ornate and stylized 'NY' letters over the bill. Johanna pursed her lips. The Mets were not her team. He wore what looked like several days growth of his beard and a ridiculously full and cheesy mustache. The man was laden down with bags from numerous tourist sites in the city. They stopped with the purpose of pulling a small pink jacket from a lavender backpack.

Jo went back to her book, trying not to stare or eavesdrop on their story as the man knelt and bundled his daughter in her jacket, carefully lifting her braid from the collar.

"How's that, Pumpkin?" he asked.

"Better, Daddy." She clutched a stuffed toy monkey between her chest and elbow. "Where are we going now?" she asked softly. Johanna almost had to crane her neck to hear.

"Hm," he hummed as he considered. "How about Battery Park? We could confound and annoy the mimes."

"Do they have pizza?"

Jo watched his eyebrow rise above the wire rim of his sunglasses. He remained squatting as he spoke to his daughter, on her level. "Are you hungry, Bug?" He glanced at his expensive watch through the mirrored sunglasses he wore.

In the few moments she'd only just observed them, Jo made-up a narrative of their story. He was probably a divorced father who only saw his daughter every other weekend and on school holidays. They probably lived close to practical driving distance of the city, but too far to make this a regular occurrence. She guessed the girls age at around four or five. His age was harder to guess because of the sunglasses, but he was fit, no grey peeking from under the hat or indications of even beginning wrinkles under the shades. She estimated his age to be around thirty. Jo sighed mournfully, _'So young to be divorced with a child.'_ Precisely at that moment, he placed his hand, his left hand on the barrier as he stood. _'Oh God,'_ Jo thought, _'newly divorced, too: there's still a tan line where his ring was.'_

She glanced to the little girl again who, to Jo's embarrassment was looking directly at her. She had beautiful blue eyes and a delicate complexion. A lovely child. Jo picked up her coffee which had recently been refilled by her very attentive waitress. When she shifted her eyes to the young girl's father, he was looking directly at her as well, a smirk on his face which stretched into a broad smile.

"Hi," he said his eyebrow arching: ostensibly a habitual expression. He looked down at his daughter and grinned again. Looking back to Jo he asked, "Pardon us ma'am, do you know of any good places to get a slice…I mean a slice of pizza, right Pumpkin?"

"Only cheese this time, Daddy," she reminded.

"Yeah, only cheese on your slice, Baby."

Jo was slightly embarrassed for him. The bistro served pizza. She pointedly looked down to the placard where his hand rested.

He lifted it as if burned. "I feel like an idiot." He smiled sheepishly. "Thanks for pointing that out and for not pointing out my idiocy." He held out his hand. "I'm Rick and this is Alexis."

Johanna smiled as she shook his hand. There was no harm in being nice to a tourist. If people could see that everyone who lived in New York wasn't rude or out to mug them, maybe more tourists would come visit the city. She was in effect helping her city. "I'm Jo," she said, "and I'm going to assume that you were distracted by this lovely young lady and didn't see the sign."

"Thank you," Alexis bashfully said while partially hiding behind Rick's leg.

Rick smiled again, thanked her and then scooped Alexis up into his arms and disappeared inside the restaurant. Jo went back to reading her book. The chief and deputy just discovered a second murdered family.

* * *

"You'll have to forgive me, but why are you reading that trash?"

Jo blinked and looked up into Rick's face. He was lifting Alexis into a seat at an adjoining table. Jo sighed. _'Maybe she'd been nice to a psycho-stalker,'_ she thought.

"I'm sorry, have you ever read any of his books?"

"Yeah, he's a hack," Rick said offhandedly as he blew on his daughter's pizza. The slice was possibly as big as the child's head.

"I'm sorry, but you're wrong. These books have never failed to transport me to whatever little town or big city in which they're set. I feel like I know the characters, as if I could have them over for dinner or invite them for a picnic with my own family. I know all the details of their lives; they are described that thoroughly and interestingly." Instead of sitting back contritely as he should have, as if he were being scolded by his mom, because she was using the same tone that she used on Katie, Rick's smile grew impossibly wider. Jo let out an indignant huff. "Furthermore," she continued her tirade and lifted the book on its end revealing the back cover and the author's portrait, "No one has a greater sense of right and wrong or delivers the promise of fairness, justice and equality than mister…"

"Daddy, that's y..."Alexis shouted and pointed at the book, effectively cutting her off.

He clamped his bear-paw finger over her tiny lips. "Shh, Baby: you know better than to interrupt. Eat your pizza, please."

Alexis went back to pulling and eating the messy, elastic strands of mozzarella cheese from her pizza crust. Jo looked back and forth at the two tourists. Rick was still grinning.

He held up his hands in surrender. "You win, you win. He's okay, if you like that sort of thing. May I see your book?"

Johanna frowned suspiciously.

"I promise I won't deface it. I'd simply like to read the synopsis. Maybe I'll give this one a try."

"Okay, but I'm watching you. I have many friends who are NYPD." He raised his eyebrows again. "If you do anything, you'll never be able to visit the city again." It wasn't a viable threat, but it was all she had.

He chuckled as she handed him her book.

"But, Daddy…" he placed his fingers over his girl's lips again. Jo thought that was odd. _'Definitely some sort of psycho.'_

Rick opened the book and grinned. The man liked to smile. He leaned over the table and removed his hat. "Can you keep a secret?" he whispered.

Jo looked at him with widened eyes, not quite sure what to make of the strange man. He was looking more and more like a psycho-stalker every minute. She leaned forward also, as if they were both a part of some vast subversive conspiracy and whispered back hesitantly, "Okay."

He removed the mirrored sunglasses and winked. Jo narrowed her eyes. He picked up the book and held its back cover next to his head.

"Oh my God," Johanna gasped. "That is the worst looking false mustache I have ever seen." Completely out of her comfort zone and normal behavior, she reached out and yanked and the fake thing peeled from his upper lip with a sickening rip and then a slosh. Rick, visibly surprised, laughed loudly. She realized she was still pinching the fake mustache she'd just ripped from Richard Castle's face between two fingers and dropped it nervously. They watched it descend in slow motion spinning lazily onto his slice of pizza like a maple seed.

"Alexis started giggling. "Mr. Pizza Face," she laughed and pointed to her father's pizza slice, which had pepperoni slices as eyes and a walrusy mustache over a red pepper smile wedge. The two adults laughed along with her.

"Well, I don't think I'll be eating that,' he said of his pizza. He frowned as he contemplated the mustache. "Hm; probably not sticking this back on my face, either." He lifted the mustache that had absorbed the extra grease from the pizza like a sponge. It dripped red tinged oil back onto his plate. "Kind of looks like plasma," he observed ghoulishly.

Jo grimaced. "Oh, Mr. Castle!" After he pushed the paper plate holding the pizza monstrosity across the table, she continued, "I do truly adore your books."

"Thanks and please call me Rick. I'm sorry I made you upset earlier."

"I shouldn't have reacted that badly, but everything I said was true."

He smiled and chuckled again. "You're more passionate about my work than my agent. Maybe you should be promoting them. You must be a true fan. I'm honored to meet you."

"Thank you, but we've met before."

"Oh…oh yeah; I noticed that your book had my signature. See?" he emphasized to Alexis, "You've got to be a true fan or deranged to stand in line for my autograph, but Jo here doesn't look deranged to me."

Jo found his self-deprecating sense of humor charming. "Um, thank you, I think? We actually met in the park one day a few years ago. You probably don't remember. Your very pregnant wife sat down…" She let her sentence fade as she noticed the look of profound sadness cross his features.

Oh.

She'd remembered the tan line where his wedding ring should have been. "I'm extremely sorry," she mumbled after having remembered the news of his divorce plastered on page six, scarcely last month.

He smiled, but the grief was prevalent in his eyes. "It's okay: just new," he said quietly. He turned to his daughter who had been sitting quietly waiting for her father to finish speaking. "Ready to go, Pumpkin?"

She nodded. "Daddy, what about your disguise?"

He smiled gently at his daughter. "It's okay; I think the hat and shades will work." He swiveled his head back to Johanna. "Jo, it's been a pleasure…again, apparently. Remind me if you ever get another one of that pulp signed or maybe the new one. It should be out in a couple of months unless my editor wants me to re-write the whole thing." He rolled his eyes in a long-suffering, but comical way earning a giggle from his daughter and a smile from Jo.

"Thanks, I will." She returned his warm smile and shook his hand.

The Castles got up to leave and Rick hoisted Alexis to his shoulders. They looked perfect together. He spun around quickly making her lose her balance and she gripped under his chin tighter as she swung back. Jo couldn't help but laugh. Rick shot her one more smile before leaving the patio.

Jo called, "Wait! Why were you both posing as tourists? Don't you still live in the city?"

Rick scowled and looked up at Alexis. "Posing?" The four year old shrugged. "We are tourists," he explained. "Because we live here, does that mean we can't experience wonderful new things, meet charming and interesting people and visit all the beautiful places in our city the same way visitors do, we…"

"Only have to not take our city for granite..."

"Granted, Sweetheart," Rick corrected.

"Okay and we need to...um..."

He prompted, "Slow down..."

"And notice wonderful things, beautiful people and fascinating places," Alexis finished happily. Clearly, the girl had heard that discourse before. Jo was very impressed with her vocabulary. She supposed that was normal when your father is a famous writer.

"And the disguises?" Jo asked.

Alexis explained, "Gram says if you're going to play a part, you have to dress the part."

The author clarified, "My mother is an actress."

Of course, Jo knew that. "It's fun to be a tourist in your own city. Try it sometime. I recommend it without the mustache though: it's hot and scratchy and I don't think _you'd_ go unnoticed wearing that on your lovely face." He smiled again and bowed slightly, scaring Alexis again as she tipped forward, starting another chorus of giggles. "Hope to see you again sometime," he croaked through the now near death grip his daughter held on his throat. He nodded, walked away and turned a corner and in a matter of minutes had disappeared back into anonymity among the millions in the city.

* * *

Jo burst through the door of their apartment a few hours later. Jim was in the kitchen with Katie, who to Jo's delightful surprise was home. They were making brownies together for dessert. The image of Richard Castle and his daughter crept into her mind, paralleling the two father-daughter pairs. Jo smiled.

"Guess what we're doing this Sunday," Jo excitedly said. She opened her shopping bag and thrust tee shirts into the hands of her family. Both looked at each other, silently bewildered about their gifts.

"We're going to be tourists!" Jo exclaimed.

Katie and Jim held cheesy tourist tee shirts and exchanged bewildered expressions. Jim's read 'Takin a Big Bite Outta Da Apple'. A silhouetted New York City skyline adorned the background along with a giant red apple. Katie held up her "I Got Mugged at Central Perk' shirt to her chest. It was a _Friends_ TV show reference and had a graphic of an inviting coffee cup holding a latte. An apple design floated in the foam. Jo held up her own shirt: it read, 'I Wish This Were Native New Yorker, Richard Castle' and had an arrow pointing to the left.

"That's not all." She handed them hats: New York Yankee hats, of course. No Mets hats here. She loved Richard Castle, but not enough to ever wear the Mets.

* * *

A number of readers have mentioned that they are Mets fans.

Addendum to A/N - No member of the Mets organization or Mets fans were harmed nor was disrespect intended during the writing of this chapter. Given Beckett's reaction to Joe Freakin' Torre, I figured the Yankees were a safe bet and that tends to run in families.


	5. The Gift of Daughters

_A/N - I hope you are all still with me. My life is in a sort of state of flux. It's all good, but tiring, challenging and busy. Things will settle down soon and I will be able to update my other two stories more frequently and quickly. As for this one: there's one more chapter planned...maybe two, because I just thought of another possibility. ;-)_

 _This was kind of hard to write, knowing what's coming. I'd never do well knowing the future._

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

 _This chapter is dedicated to my own remarkable and exceptional daughter._

* * *

 **Fan Girl**

 **Chapter 5**

 **The Gift of Daughters**

Kate flipped her collar up and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck against the chilled damp wind as it whipped through the eclectic architecture on Chenery Street. She ineffectively jammed her hands in the pockets of her jeans in an effort to stave off the chill. Watching the woman ahead of her in line desperately trying to reign in her shoulder length hair, she was glad she opted for the braids of her own long locks. She'd considered getting it cut short before school started, but her mom had asked her to wait until after her first semester, something having to do with getting used to too many changes at once. Katie wasn't sure if it was she or her folks who had to get used to things, but she was glad she listened. She had to admit that she would have missed the comfort and the consistency that her familiar hair style brought. Another of her mother's "I told you so-s, averted. Her mother was the reason she stood in a line that stretched a block and a half from the humble doorway of Bird and Beckett Book Store. She had been there before, once for a poetry reading and another time to see a local jazz trio, San Fran Sizzles. She felt a kinship with the store's name as well.

The book part of the store's name brought her back on the blustery early December evening. Her dad had called and after a lengthy conversation including some bargaining, plea dealing and a fair amount of guilt doled her way, she agreed to get a book for her mother for Christmas: a specific book. A quick search and she not only found the new book, _Kissed and Killed,_ but also that its author would be signing copies at Bird and Beckett before she was supposed to leave for home.

Accordingly, she bundled up to wait in a ridiculously long line (seriously) in order to get Richard Castle's signature on his latest fictional endeavor. Her mother would be very happy. Katie was surprised to learn that she hadn't already ordered the book, as she habitually did. Her father explained that between working long hours on a complicated and intriguing case and her work helping to clean up Washington Heights, she hadn't had any time for extra activities. A man named Pulgatti had been wrongly convicted of murder and his case required her mom and her legal team to work nearly twenty-four-seven. Katie could hear the concern in her father's voice, thus she relented, and thus she stood in the line.

Katie still couldn't understand her mother's preference for crime books given that she was handling cases like Pulgatti's. From her dad's description, Pulgatti's case sounded more like a cheesy pulp plot out of one of the Castle books than an actual legal case. If anything, she thought her mom would want to get as far away from anything that reminded her of her work as possible. She proposed to him that she should get a romance or history novel so they could gently direct her mom away from the crime books, but he had quashed that idea. Her mom was a fan of the genre and had been for as long as either of them could remember and she had lamented about not being able to purchase that particular book, the one that rested in the bottom of her shopping bag.

She shivered against another arctic blast swirling off the bay as she slowly shuffled forward along with the rest of the pilgrims seeking warmth and a millisecond's worth of a scratch of an indelible ink marker on paper. She had seen the articles about him, had read about his lifestyle and choices and she doubted that he would even look up at the people who had been standing for hours braving horrible weather in which no sane person would be caught. She noticed the gathering storm clouds and had a silent debate with herself whether to stay or not. The last time she checked, she was sane. The book itself would be a welcome gift; she could always get it signed the next time.

Without warning, the line moved rapidly into the light and warmth of the shop. She was directed into a serpentine-like queue along with the hundreds of others. She opened her coat and looked around. The author had been set up in the middle of the mystery section, but two teenaged employees were moving the table and chair and the various books, pens, water bottles, and a ceramic coffee cup as well as two large cardboard facades of the cover of the book to the stage. They were grumbling under their breaths, but Kate, along with other line-dwellers caught part of the conversation.

"…he thinks he can just direct us to move things where ever he wants, it's not like this is his store. We don't work for him."

"I know, jeez, if he didn't take so much time with each person, he would have been through the line before the weather rolled in. He just wants the extra attention."

Kate thought about the exchange. Could it possibly be the author, whom her mother cherished despite his very public, very outlandish conduct and questionable habits that took pity on the lemmings waiting in the bluff winds to dive off the cliff of blind adoration? She craned her neck around the over-teased and over-sprayed head of slightly pinkish hair of the woman in front of her. She had to be twenty years older than her mother. As a matter of fact, now that she was inside, she could see that most of her line mates were middle-age-ish women, like her mom, with a few exceptions of college students and men. She used her lanky height to her advantage and peered over the tops of hats and the aforementioned hair that was spun like cotton candy to the stage area.

The staff had reset him up on stage left and the line snaked exiting stage right, down the three steps and wound around the scattered and sparse round multi-colored-cloth covered high tables and chairs arranged for poetry or jazz audiences. She still stood outside of the performance area in the bookshop proper, but she could finally see him. After watching him for a few moments, she felt several things: confusion because the man on the stage didn't behave the way she imagined; namely, badly; gratitude because she knew now that he was the one who brought his fans and her in from the cold; and understanding because even though he was a decade older than she was, now that she saw him in person, she understood her mother's infatuation. He was tall; he even seemed to dwarf the person next to him while sitting in his seat, he had really great hair; really, really great and a nice smile. However, more impressive than that was that he spoke to each of the people who had waited to see him and even made eye contact on purpose, speaking of which, he had the most gorgeous blue eyes Kate had ever seen. She shuffled forward along with the rest of the throng. So maybe she was wrong about the person, or maybe he was just on his best behavior.

Fifteen more minutes passed and she stretched her neck, back, shoulders and legs as inconspicuously as she could as the line crept toward the dais. She chuckled to herself at her word choices: the thought of the Castle god accepting virgin sacrifices and doling benevolence upon his adoring worshippers. She was sacrificing her time and comfort for her mom, not for herself. Actually, she was standing there for her dad, at her dad's insistence, for her mom. Kate pursed her lips. Her father had counted on the axiomatic child's manifest guilt in relation to their mother. It's something born in children who adore their mommies as babies and toddlers, only to reject it during their rebellious and arrogant adolescence thereby creating a chasm between the procreator and offspring full of disappointment and culpability; the path of forgiveness only negotiable by contrite penitence and meager offerings. The book was just such an offering. The signature was the frosting on the offering.

Another ten minutes and another couple of inches and she was balancing on her toes, stretching her arches, cat-like. She shuffled into the audience area next to the stage. A few of the other line inmates had made use of chairs along the velvet roped off area. She saw an open one and dove for it, much like a seagull plunging into the waters for her next meal. She received a disapproving glare from the woman with pink hair. Yes, she was young and yes, she had stamina, but her feet ached and remained cold from the many minutes outside. Sure, she probably should have worn something other than her boots, but they made her feel as if she were truly an adult: an actual adult, not just a masquerading as an adult and certainly not the nineteen year-old who, at times, still wanted to be a kid.

"Do you want to color?"

She almost missed the whispered, hesitant question. Turning her head over her shoulder, she noticed that she sat down at a table occupied by a little girl. She had a stack of children's books as well as a coloring book along with a big box of crayons. The little girl, who was very young, Kate estimated around four or five held out her hand, offering a teal crayon.

Kate started to stand. "I'm so sorry. I was tired of standing in line and I didn't see you sitting there." She looked around in the immediate area for a parent. Kate wasn't a parent, aunt or even an older sibling, but she wouldn't leave her kid by herself in a store, no matter how quaint and charming it was. She smiled at the girl. "Are you here with your mom?" she asked brightly.

The expressive blue eyes turned downward and the hand retracted, setting the crayon carefully in the box. "No. She was supposed to visit since we're in her state, but she couldn't come from work." She sighed forlornly and Kate's heart broke. The girl was alone and looked utterly devastated that she'd essentially been stood up by her mother.

"I'm sorry." She relaxed and lowered herself back to the chair. "Are you here with somebody else?" Kate asked casually, not wanting to upset the child again, but she remained concerned about her lack of supervision.

"Yeah, I mean, yes," she corrected. "My daddy is over there." She waved in the general direction of the front of the line. Kate looked that way and saw two men standing fairly close to the beginning of the line, within the top dozen people queued to see the author, either of which could be about the right age to be the girl's father. Neither was watching or even looking in the direction of the girl. Kate frowned.

"Do you want to color?"

She looked back to the lonely girl with sympathy and kindness in her expression and replied, "Sure," with a warm smile, but then added, "But only if you tell me your name. I'm Kate."

Suddenly a tiny pale hand thrust forward to Kate. "Nice to meet you, I'm Alexis."

Kate smiled and shook the precocious girl's hand. "What are we coloring today?"

"Beauty and the Beast: it's my favorite."

"Mine too," Kate agreed, of course the last time she saw it, she had been twelve and her mother brought her to the movies as a part of a belated birthday gift. Kate protested that she was too old for cartoons, but went with her mother anyway (the guilt thing) and found herself entranced. Kate could still hear her mother's favorite phrase, _'I told you so, Katie,'_ as they exited the theater that day. She grew to love the story and the movie prompted her to read the original fairy tale by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont. "What's your favorite part?" she asked as she colored the enchanted rose.

"The happy ending," Alexis answered without hesitation.

Kate smiled, leaned toward the girl and whispered, "Mine too."

They colored for several more minutes until Kate realized that there was far less noise from waiting fans. She lifted her head and gazed around the café as if she were in a trance. Then she noticed that the line had disappeared as well as the author and neither of the two men she had pegged as possible candidates as the girl's father were anywhere in sight.

Kate reached down to the floor for her bag and stood. "Alexis, I'm so sorry, but I have to go. I was supposed to get my mom's book signed and I've missed that and where is your dad?"

"Daddy is still up there. He told me to wait here until he was done."

Kate was still uncertain, but accepted Alexis' confidence. "Okay, well then, thank you for sharing your coloring pages with me."

"What book?" Alexis asked.

"What?"

"The one that you need signed."

"Oh, it's this book," she said resignedly as she waved _Kissed and Killed_ in front of her, dropping it on the table with a defeated thud.

Alexis giggled. "I can sign it for you."

Kate smiled at the sweet child. "I'd love your signature, but my mom probably wants the author's and I seem to have missed him." She looked forlornly at the empty stage and empty table and berated herself for becoming so absorbed in coloring and sharing whispered giggles with the girl that she missed the activity around her. ' _I'd be a perfect mark for a robbery,'_ she thought sardonically. _'I wouldn't remember a thing about anything: I'd make a horrible witness.'_

Alexis giggled again as she grabbed the book and ran toward the stage, disappearing behind one of the oversized book cover posters.

Kate stood awkwardly staring at the stage where the sweet child with sudden onset oddness had disappeared. "Well, that was weird," she mumbled to herself. She dropped back to the chair and checked her watch.

The smallish bookstore had become mostly deserted in the short time she had been preoccupied with the girl. Only a few employees remained to clean up where the throng of humanity had been and scattered customers perused the shelves while a few diehard fans lingered. Their nonchalant act was obvious and anticipative; each casting furtive glances toward the area Richard Castle had last been seen, hoping to catch just one more glimpse. They reminded Kate of her mom and her ardent fangirling. She chuckled and shook her head.

The lingerers attention and whispering increased dramatically just as Kate heard Alexis calling her name.

Kate turned toward the stage to locate Alexis, but her view was blocked by a tall, broad man. Kate tried to look around him, though at the same time realized that Alexis was not behind him, but holding his hand, dragging him toward her.

"…and she likes happy endings and Beauty and the Beast and she colored with me and her mom…"

Kate looked up and dumbly recognized the person Alexis had brought back with her. In shock, she quickly jumped up.

"Alexis, sweetie, slow down…where?"

"Here, Daddy. This is Kate."

Kate 'I'm not impressed with his celebrity, Mom' Beckett sheepishly smiled. "Um…"

Richard Castle, the object of her mother's fantasies, (ew) her adoration and so much praise for his work that Kate had stopped listening, and had actively tried to dissuade her mother's adulation, stood right in front of her. It occurred to Kate, from the rapidly changing expressions on his face, that the man was determining whether she had been a threat to his child or not.

She was vaguely aware that he smiled, but it wasn't the smile she often saw and disdained on page six. It was full of warmth and amusement. _'Surprising,'_ she thought and, _'Oh…oh, amusement. He is amused by my reaction.'_

"I'm sorry, Alexis never said…"

"Yeah, apparently." He pressed his lips against his teeth and rubbed his hands together, flexing his right hand. "Alexis tells me that you kept her company, giving up your place in line, to color?"

She jammed her hands into her pockets and bashfully looked down at their art. Kate cringed; her rendition of a Belle and Gaston picture showed her holding a book that had a cover that looked suspiciously like the one the author who now stood before her was holding. She surreptitiously moved another depicting Mrs. Potts and Chip on top of the first. "Um…I sat down, because I was tired."

"I'm sorry you had to wait."

Surprised at the genuine remorse in his voice, Kate looked up at him for the first time. He had the bluest eyes, even bluer, it seemed the closer he got. He stood mere feet from her now. She returned her gaze to the table, but got the distinct impression that he was smiling even more broadly. "Alexis invited me to color."

"I did, Daddy," Alexis corroborated and all of his attention focused at once upon his daughter. The girl explained further, "But then we had so much fun that she missed getting her book signed. Can you still?"

"Of course, Pumpkin." Rick looked back at the striking, young woman doing her best not to make eye contact. It seemed unnatural, as if she normally looked people in the eye and subsequently owned them. "Uh, Kate right?" he asked as he pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and set her book on the café table.

"No," she blurted and grabbed his right arm, realized it and released his forearm immediately.

Rick chuckled and raised an amused eyebrow in question.

"It's a present for her mommy, Daddy," Alexis supplied.

"Oh, yeah…that's right." The man grinned and playfully asked, "Okay Miss Kate, what's your mommy's name?"

Kate overcame her deer-in-the-headlights frozen sluggishness and answered, "Johanna, my mom's name is Johanna."

The writer held the pen poised over his book, but then looked up in surprise. "I met a Johanna once. Pretty name, but I think my Johanna was way too young to be your mother, but that would be cool in a creepy Disney _It's a Small World_ way."

He looked down at the book and began writing. After several minutes, Kate scowled and peered across the table trying to decipher what he could have been writing for so long. While she had watched him take his time with his fans, speaking to each person and making eye contact, he didn't write a whole other novel in the novels he signed. He stopped and Kate jerked her head back as if she was caught copying test answers from her classmate. He re-read what he had written and smiled, no, smirked really and then closed the book and held it out to her in a long-practiced move.

She acted surprised as if she wasn't waiting for him to finish with it, as if it didn't mean so much more to be able to tell her mother this story. "Thank you," she said, tucking the book back into the bag emblazoned with the BBBS logo. She turned back to her coloring-mate. "Alexis, thank you, too."

"You're welcome. I had fun," the girl said quietly before climbing up on the chair and table and ultimately into her father's arms, suddenly shy.

"Rick?" A shrill incantation of his name echoed throughout the mostly empty shop and a woman in a power suit, five-inch heels with her deep brunette hair pulled back into a severe bun swept off the stage just like a frosty gust from the bay had come down Chenery Street. "You are going to miss your fricken flight if you don't get in the damn car now and then whose chestnuts will Gina roast over an open fire? You better believe that they won't be mine."

"Paula…Alexis," he plaintively scolded as he held his hands over his daughter's ears.

"That's not my fault," she whined. Kate watched the exchange and got the impression that the author and his daughter were used to the woman's abrasiveness, that they knew her well.

"Okay, Paula: ten seconds." He turned back to Kate. "Thanks for waiting, today Kate. Tell your mother that I said she has a remarkable daughter." He smiled once more and hiked Alexis up on his hip and quickly turned to join the exasperated, toe-tapping woman by the door.

Alexis waved over her father's shoulder as he wrapped her coat tightly around her before ducking out into the chilled San Francisco streets.

* * *

Katie Beckett sat with her legs curled under her next to a Christmas tree covered in memories and shiny trinkets, sipping her hot chocolate. She felt warm and cozy. She was home and she hadn't realized how much she had missed her home and parents until she got back home.

"Who's next?" her dad asked, while searching through the yet unopened gifts still piled under the tree.

"Oh, how about that one, Dad?" she offered as she pointed to a book-sized gift for her mother.

He dropped it on Johanna's lap and she read the tag, "To the mother of a remarkable daughter." She raised an eyebrow and smirked. "It's good to know that you're not turning into one of those first-semester know-it-alls, Katie." Kate just smiled as her mother unwrapped the gift. Jo caught her breath. "I wasn't able to get this one. Thank you so much, sweetheart." She hugged it to her chest and smiled warmly.

Kate smiled even wider. "I have quite the story to tell you about that book. I met Richard Castle and his daughter."

"Oh, Katie, he's a nice man, isn't he? His daughter is adorable, isn't she?"

"Seems to be, I got it signed for you." She proudly flipped the front cover open for her mother.

Johanna read, _"Dear Johanna, You have a remarkable and exceptional daughter. Not only did she brave an unusual cold front and stood for hours in a line to get this book signed (and I have the feeling that she is not the fan in your family), but she also kept my daughter company while I was unavoidably delayed, thinking that she'd sacrificed her opportunity to complete her Christmas gift to you in deference to staying with my girl. I hope my daughter grows to be the same type of kind, caring person you have raised. Thanks for your loyalty and example, Richard Castle."_


	6. I'm Your Biggest Fan

_A/N - Thanks to all the reviewers, followers and readers who have added this to their favorites._ Thanks for your patience with my sporadic updates.

 _Remember how I wrote that I thought this might only be four to six chapters? Well, there is definitely one more, maybe two._

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Fan Girl**

 **Chapter 6**

 **I'm Your Biggest Fan**

The polyester of her dark blue uniform chafed in all the places that it rubbed against her skin; different from the places her academy uniform had rubbed and had caused different callouses. It had always been a welcome relief to get out of her uniform and into a soothing bath every night or day, depending upon her schedule. Despite the discomfort, it had nevertheless remained odd, not to dress in a uniform after so many months, which had slipped into years wearing the same thing every day. She had made detective, a goal she had set for herself upon entering the academy, faster than any other woman and most men on the force. Everyone congratulated her on her achievements. She would smile and nod accepting the praise outwardly, but the one thing she could consider labeling an accomplishment worthy of praise had been beyond her reach.

It had been over seven years since the January night that changed the course of her life: it felt like a lifetime ago and like yesterday at once. She could still feel the spits of rain hitting her face as she and her dad walked to their home; could still see the red and blue lights distorted in the drops. Rain, not snow: snow was too joyful, too peaceful for the dismal night. Time kept moving forward, relentlessly no matter who had been relegated to the past, unmercifully and without prejudice, consigned to mere memory. She transferred to NYU, graduated and then entered the academy; despite paternal complaints she only had to endure when he had been sober enough even to know that he should object. He'd been sober for three years and couldn't be more proud of his daughter.

She graduated, paid her dues to the streets as well as the rank and file, learning resiliency and a deeper strength, while she launched her own investigation into her mother's death. It was completely against regulations for a beat cop to be in the records room without a direct order from a superior and _beyond_ completely against the rules for any cop to investigate a crime concerning a relation. That's how the regulations and the codebook stated it: a crime concerning a relation. There had been so many times in the past seven years that she wanted to shake whoever had written the hated protocol locution or rip out the pages in the damned training books. It was never just a crime concerning a relation; it was a human being; somebody's sister or brother, a friend. It was never just a crime concerning a relation: it had been her mother who had been viciously stabbed in random gang violence. The detective that informed them of her mother's death took the regulations to heart. His monotonous tone still grated and rang in her ears: his work-a-day, impersonal attitude conveyed that he'd seen it all before. Johanna Beckett was just another victim in a long line of victims. He may have been bored; may have seen all of it before, seen a thousand murders and a thousand victims, but this was her mother; it was new and it was personal and it was devastating to her and her father.

Kate believed that the reason her mother had never realized justice was the assembly line attitude. One: look at the crimes scene; two: look at the victim, then maybe interview witnesses, and if nothing better happened to cross your path, make a judgement call or worse, mark it unsolved: cold. Move on to the next.

For her it was always personal, she respected the victims and their families; always and first, and she fought for them: following every lead, no matter how unlikely. She had spent the first three years on the force combing through the sparse records of her mother's file. She'd been caught by the Captain once. He was understanding and kind. Kate thought of Montgomery as a mentor. He rescued her from vice before her usefulness and looks gave out and put her on Homicide. He urged her to move forward and to stop looking back: the chances of closing a cold case after years were astronomical and he could see she was destroying herself. He benignly lowered the ladder into her hole and she climbed and got help. Her mother's murder would never be forgotten; she lived with it, every day.

Her doorbell buzzed. She checked her reflection in the door-length mirror one more time, grabbed her badge, keys and gun, which she secured in her holster on her way to her front door. Swinging it open, she was greeted by a sweet smile and then a kiss.

"Hey," she said.

"Morning. Do you want to stop for coffee?"

"No thanks, I'll just get some after you drop me."

"Are you still going?"

"We talked about this. You know how much it means to me."

"You probably won't even be able to talk to him."

"You know how the books made me feel closer to her. He was her favorite author."

"And you like him too."

She scoffed, "I like his books, but mostly I like the genre." She had told Will how his books had built a connection between her and her mother; about how reading her comments in the margins, fangirl-hyperbolic as they were, made her feel as if they were together in the book club her mother had asked her to attend. It made her feel as if they were comparing notes and she gripped that tenuous connection with all she had. He was in the city, well, he was usually in the city: he lived there according to his book jackets and any other article she could get her hands on, but today he was signing his latest Derrick Storm thriller: _Driving Storm_ at the Strand. She hadn't told Will that, yes, she liked the author. He was kind when she'd met him in California, before… She hadn't told him that she fantasized about her version of Derrick Storm who happened to have piercing blue eyes and an 'I've got a secret' smirk and of course he was paired with a Clara Strike that mostly resembled Kate. It was how she pictured his characters in their adventures.

"If I need to drop you over there, we need to go," Will said as he checked his watch.

She followed him out into the hallway and began to lock the door. "Oh god," she said and ran back inside.

"What?" he called from the hall. She appeared a few minutes later with her mother's copy of _A Rose for Everafter._ She was still going to purchase the new Storm, but she was hoping to show Mister Castle how well loved her mother had loved his words. She wanted to thank him. Will shook his head and smiled, but his smile was all teeth and had rung of insincere, backhanded tolerance.

* * *

The drive in his non-descript, dark-blue or maybe black, bureau issued sedan across town was slow going on an early summer morning. Will cursed having to take Broadway, but Kate barely heard him. She was far too excited. She'd work herself up, imagining her encounter with the author and then chastise herself, breathe calmly and then begin the cycle again.

"Kate, I don't think I'll be around to pick you up later. Unless something breaks, I'm pretty sure I'll be chasing a lead in New Jersey." He sounded disinterested, as if solving his case was mundane and commonplace.

"That's okay," she answered too quickly. "I mean, I'll just take the subway to the precinct when I'm done." Already preoccupied with the length of the line two hours prior to the event, she absently leaned over to kiss him and missed his face. A delicate pink blush bloomed on her cheeks and she looked down at the book in her lap. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Will shook his head and leaned over to her and properly kissed her. "I guess it's okay, as long as you don't end up marrying the guy."

"He's already married: you have nothing to worry about," she dismissed as she slipped out of the car and waved as he pulled away.

* * *

Kate Beckett perused the aisles with her vanilla latte, while she waited for the line to shrink. She made Will drop her off early, but she didn't want to be done early. She wanted the back of the line. She wanted more than a, 'Thanks for coming. Who shall I make it…out…to…' she scowled. Her favorite author, the man whose words she adored would never use improper grammar. He would say, 'Good afternoon, thank you so much for attending my event. To whom shall I endorse this lovely book?' Kate scrunched her nose and smirked, he'd say that only if he was actually Mr. Darcy.

She walked among the titles that her mother had endorsed so faithfully. Every so often, she'd heft a volume and flip it to see the smile and warmth she'd grown to count on helping her through the dark times. His books helped to provide a way out of the deep dark pit she'd crawled down pursuing her mother's murder investigation. She'd been spinning her wheels at the bottom of the dank and dark cell and it was destroying her. It all came to a head, one night in the fall. After working a double shift, she descended to the records room and lost herself as she usually did. It had taken her years and the only evidence she'd unearthed was her own personal demon and when she looked in the mirror, she saw it clearly. The thing she discovered in the pit that night was that her addiction was destroying her as much as her father's was destroying him.

She'd gotten home in the early hours of the morning, too tired to sleep, but determined to package up her mom's case. She started putting files, clippings and papers into a box of her mother's belongings, but stopped when she saw her much loved copy of _A Rose for Everafter_ at the bottom of the box. She rescued the tome that had given her mother so much pleasure, placed the rest of the casework in the box and buried it along with the demon in the back of her closet.

She spent the next hours reading the entire book. She couldn't put it down until exhaustion dragged her to her bed. As she drifted to sleep, she could see her mom, a dream or a vision, she didn't know and heard the oft repeated, 'I told you so, Katie.' _'She was right, damn it,'_ she thought. The books were good. They fought the good fight. The hero saved the day, the victims avenged, the happy ending achieved. She had wanted to secure that for her mother, for her father who fought his own battles every day and for herself, but she'd failed. Soon, she had read everything he'd ever written: the books were her lifeline, the ring buoy she gripped. She wasn't sure when it happened, but eventually it wasn't about the books as much as it became about the man behind them. She made him her hero. The one person who understood the need for justice above all else and today, he was just on the other side of the shelves.

She stood on her tiptoes and shyly peeked over the shelf at the table she'd been stalking all morning. There were two men taking down the placards and boxing leftover books.

"No," she mumbled.

She ran along the wooden shelves to the end of the aisle intersection, all the while keeping an eye on the empty table. She came to a screeching stop as she collided with another human. The human whose limbs were tangled with her own on the floor was clothed in expensive suits and cologne.

"I'm sorry, so..."

"Gina?"

Suddenly a warm hand had gripped her upper arm and then another had slipped under her elbow.

"Are you alright?"

She still hadn't assessed, but Kate assumed he was asking Gina, who she assumed was the other casualty.

"Miss?"

She turned to the inquirer's concerned voice. He had bent to retrieve Gina's purse and papers.

"I'm…I'm fine, thank you," Kate murmured. She checked her holster and that her badge was still fastened securely to her waist band. She would have a bruise on her hip from the impact of her gun hip with the tiled floor. She spoke to the woman, "I'm sorry, I wasn't watch…" She looked up from checking herself and into Richard Castle's face. He wasn't smiling, just expressing intense concern. Kate faltered and stumbled.

His hand was back under her elbow immediately. "Why don't you both sit down for a minute?"

Right, there was someone else in the immediate vicinity. Kate decided to close her mouth. She also closed her eyes. When she opened them, she continued her apology because she was an adult and not only an adult, but an adult who happened to be a homicide detective. She was uber-adultness. The appearance of her savior shouldn't make her lose her cool as much as she had.

The two women introduced themselves and Gina graciously took the blame for their collision, argued by Kate who also claimed fault.

"Well I guess we all need to watch where we're going," the author moderated.

"Richard," Gina sighed. "Kate dropped her books."

"On it," he quickly and helpfully said. He stooped to pick up the two books. "Hey," he said delightedly. "Check it out, Gina." He stood, beaming and held up the books, fanned in his fingers. He asked Kate, "Were you here for the book signing?"

"I was, but I thought I waited too long."

"He can sign them for you now," Gina added helpfully.

"Well…"

"Sure, why not?" He sat at the table with them. Gina rubbed her temple. He noticed. "Are you okay, sweetheart?" He dropped the pen and reached for her hand.

' _Sweetheart? Oh, oh, oh! This is his wife,'_ Kate thought she looked vaguely familiar. All of a sudden she was very warm.

"I'm fine, just a headache."

"You had that before the crash," he replied snidely.

His wife frowned

He turned his attention back to Kate and her books. "Okay," he said while grinning at the being formally known as Kate Beckett whose heart lay in a puddle on the floor. He wrote for a moment and then closed her copy of _Driving Storm_. He reached for the next book. "Whoa! I don't usually see a lot of these at these events anymore." He looked back at Kate, amused and still smiling. "What, you must have been about ten when this one came out, right?"

"It's not mine: it belonged to my mother," she answered quietly. His face fell a little and she felt herself wanting to see the sparkle return to his face and get carried along in the buoyancy his of his previous humor. "I mean, it is now. It was my mother's book. She loved your books."

The young woman's tone, the unmistakable sadness that enveloped her and her use of past tense made him pause. He ran his fingers gingerly and respectfully over the cover, the colorless, worn corners and then the slightly loosened binding before he opened the well-worn copy with reverence.

He flipped the publishing information page and even though he resisted, his eyes were drawn to the dedication printed on the next page, _'For_ _Kyra Blaine, you make the stars shine.'_ He felt the old pang tug in his chest and he swallowed. He hadn't actually thought about her for years. The familiar sadness and regret only and always surfaced when he saw a copy of the book.

Kate began, "Mr. Castle, you don't have to…"

He looked up at her, realizing that his mien must have been expressing what was in his heart. He smiled warmly. Here was this young woman who had handed him her mother's book, her mother who had died and he was tromping around his own swampy remorse and emotions. He had no right. He looked to Kate's right at his wife, who, judging from the barely controlled irritation on her face, also knew what he had been thinking.

"No, it's okay, Kate: I was just lost in a memory: I wrote this a very long time ago." He pointedly looked at Gina. "I was a completely different person." He smiled reassuringly and turned to the next page at which time, the smile promptly dropped from his face. He hadn't written anything particularly moving or witty, or anything for that matter. He looked down at the hurriedly scrawled signature that barely resembled his name in the Latin alphabet. Maybe he signed it while in Russia or Japan. He shamefully wondered if he had even taken the time to speak or make eye contact with Kate's mother. He wondered if he had been inundated with fans that day or if his mind was somewhere else. He wondered if he had been that jackass from page six. "I'm sorry there's not more written here. I must have been busy or distracted." _'Or an ungracious asshole too preoccupied to take ten seconds and appreciate a true fan.'_

"I don't think so," Kate said. He looked as if his best friend and his dog were down the well and Lassie was nowhere to be seen. "She really loved your books and never missed an opportunity to stand in line…" he winced: he hated the lines and had always wished there was another way of seeing and meeting his fans. If there were, maybe Kate's mother would have had a better, more personable signature. Kate tilted her head until she had regained his eye contact. "She stood in line because she had a special place in her heart for you." Kate smiled and looked down at the table, shyly. "She met you a few times outside of book stores or events."

Castle sat forward, interested in her story. "Really? Where? What was her name?"

"Johanna."

"That's a lovely name."

"She spoke to you at the park once and at a restaurant, I think. Oh and at a florist's."

"The way we were intersecting, it was kind of like the Manhattan version of Forrest Gump or maybe…" He gasped as if he discovered a rare mineral and then grinned puckishly. "…a Florist Gump?" He squinted at his own pun, but the sparkle remained in his eyes. Gina, who Kate forgot was sitting at the table, groaned and rolled hers.

"I'm truly sorry I don't remember. I just meet so…"

Kate nodded. "So many people, I know; if today's line was any indication."

"Yeah, but you'd think after a few times…"

"Mr. Castle,"

"Rick, please."

"Okay, Rick, she was happy to have met you and shared a conversation or two. You made her a happy fan girl."

"She sounds like she was extraordinary and I do wish I could remember."

"I wouldn't expect you to and neither did she. She accosted you late at night on a subway platform at Grand Central Station for that signature." She nodded at the open book on the table before him. "She always felt badly for bothering you after she got a good like at your face. She said you were gracious even though you looked like your world had caved in around you."

Rick looked down at the book again. He knew exactly which night it was: the night Kyra left him. The only night he recollected that he would have been visibly distraught at Grand Central. He didn't remember anyone asking for an autograph.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered and his head jerked up. She looked at him with hazel eyes so full of her own pain, but sympathetic to his. Why was this woman able to read him so easily?

He inhaled slowly and deeply. "It's okay. That was a long time ago." He glanced at his wife. She was tinted green, like; he closed his eyes because the only analogy his brain provided was that she reminded him of the Grinch. He read the ever-present anger and impatience; both had become normal in their relationship. He also noted the jealousy, not oft seen any longer, personally he didn't believe she cared enough to be jealous of other women, but it was still his least favorite of her attributes, seeping from her eyes and pores, present in her pinched lips and slightly raised defiant chin. It made her unattractive. He'd be paying for his reactions and interactions tonight, hell maybe even before the end of the car trip home.

He sighed, mentally: no need to add audible exasperation and resignation to the forthcoming list of his shortcomings he'd be informed of shortly. He figured he had nothing to lose so he asked, "Do you mind if I sign this properly?"

Kate looked hopeful. Gina looked infuriated.

Gina, who had been tapping her manicured fingernails on the Formica of the reading table, suddenly shot out of her seat. "Oh my God, Richard, just sign the damn book already," she fumed and then stalked away without a second glance or word spared for Kate. "I'll be in the car."

Rick closed his eyes tightly for ten seconds and then opened them again to the face of a concerned fan. "Sorry about that. Gina…she gets cranky when she needs to eat. That had nothing to do with you."

Kate watched his wife and wondered what else had happened that day, surely the ten minutes they'd been seated at the table wouldn't have provoked her outburst, nevertheless she also apologized, "She's right. I've taken too much of your time."

Castle looked at the young woman. There were so many things compelling about her. He wanted to learn more of her story, but he could tell that he had already pushed his wife to the limit or beyond. He nodded and began to write.

A few minutes later, he lifted his pen and Kate could see his eyes flick back and forth, very quickly, over what he had written. The corners of his lips lifted slightly in a closed-mouth, almost smile. He closed the book and placed his hand on the cover, almost reverently and then raised his eyes to meet Kate's.

They stared at each other for a moment. His gaze imparted his sympathy and understanding, hers, her gratitude and esteem.

"Richard!" Gina's highly perturbed tone broke the thread that connected them.

Rick closed his eyes and breathed in. When he opened them, he raised his eyebrows and apologetically said, "I should be going." He slid her book across the table and rose.

"Me too, I've got to get to work."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know I was keeping you. Work for me is typing in my office, fifteen feet from my bed. I sometimes forget that not everybody can be me," he wisecracked. "What do you do?" he asked conversationally as he held her chair for her.

Kate smiled, "I'm a cop; a detective." You would have thought she had just told a five year old that she worked at Willie Wonka's.

He stopped walking toward the store's door and practically bounced. "That's so cool." They reached the door and the author opened it for the cop.

"May we give you a lift to your…I'm assuming, your precinct?"

Kate looked through the back window of the limo to his seething wife. "No thanks…I don't think…I would never live it down, arriving at the precinct in that." She smiled and nodded toward the car.

"Oh, you're probably right." He looked at the car and turned back to her. "Detective, it's been a pleasure," he said with a slight bow. "I hope our paths cross again."

"You can count on it," Kate began, "I'll be back to get your next book signed." She turned and began to walk away.

"You can come to any of my book signings," he called, "as long as you don't arrest me."

* * *

Later that evening, after a long shift and even longer paperwork she settled into her claw-foot bathtub, brimming with lavender scented bubbles, with a glass of Merlot and her mother's copy of _A Rose for Everafter_.

Compulsively, she wiped and re-wiped her hands on her towel, so she wouldn't get the cherished tome damp. She placed the bottom edge of the book on the bath tray and opened it until she found his hastily scrawled signature and flipped the remaining page to his new inscription.

' _Dear Kate,_

 _I can't express how sorry I am for your loss, but I'm sure you hear that all the time. What you probably don't hear is how obviously remarkable you are. Clearly, you love your mother a great deal and I'm positive that her untimely death represents one the great injustices of the world and to you. I am as sure of that as I am that you are a wonderful daughter, you can take my word for it; I have experience with what a wonderful daughter is. My hope for you is that you find healing and renewal. My hope for myself is that, one day, you'll come to get one of my menial works signed again and I'll see joy where today I saw grief._

 _I am honored and humbled that both you and your mother found a connection, a bond, through my writing. I truly wish that I remembered her, but her legacy will always live on through you and through you, she will be remembered._

 _I am grateful that I was given the opportunity to speak with you. Keep the passion that I see alight in your eyes. If you keep your sincerity and the ingenuousness of your heart, you'll never be alone._

 _Your and your mother's fan,_

 _Richard Castle'_


	7. Fallen

_A/N - Hello and I hope that everyone who partakes, had a blessed Thanksgiving! I've finally been able to take a couple of days off from work, moving and my daughter's senior year activities to write this update._

 _As always, thanks to the readers (I love watching those numbers rise), the reviewers (you extinguish the fires of self-doubt), the followers (you want more, and for that I am truly grateful), and the readers who add this to their favorite stories list (you want to revisit and reread and I cannot think of a greater compliment)._

 _I stopped short of quoting a lot of dialogue from the episode in this chapter. I'm not a big fan of rereading a part of the show, word for word, but I have included a couple of lines here, because without them, the backstory would not have flowed as well. I ask your indulgence._

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Fan Girl**

 **Chapter 7**

 **Fallen**

She'd practically hummed since she'd left the apartment. She wasn't happy about the murder; the poor woman deserved more respect from her than that; at the very least. No, she was excited about the staging of the murder. Alison Tisdale was laid out exactly as _he'd_ described it in _Flowers for Your Grave_ : the _'he'_ being one Richard Castle, of course. She still couldn't believe that neither Esposito nor Ryan recognized the crime scene: that neither one had read 'the Master of Macabre's' books. No one did; no one that was there at the scene anyway. That was okay. It was excellent, actually. She had felt like she'd won the lottery. Kate hadn't been able to get to another book-signing event in the city since three years ago when she, quite literally ran into the author's wife. Ex-wife now, she corrected herself mentally and couldn't help the shivers of anticipation that ran up and down her spine.

She shouldn't have gone herself. She should have sent Ryan and Espo or even unis to bring the author in for questioning. He was a material witness, not necessarily a suspect and maybe that was why she decided she needed to pick him up herself: to make sure he received the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Ryan or Espo would treat the kind, considerate man she remembered as a suspect or any of the other names she'd heard the boys use to describe a perp: a pipehead, creep, crook, knucklehead, or any of a dozen others as colorful and descriptive as she had found in his writing, but not as the man she remembered and whose life and career she followed closely.

Maybe a uniform would manhandle or mistreat him. No, she decided that she would go and pick him up. She wouldn't even need a sketch or picture, his brilliant blue eyes and amused smirk had been indelibly etched into her memory and reinforced by her studious gazing at various of his pictures on the backs of his books. She could see how he had matured with each new cover: his hair was longer on his first book and he hadn't quite mastered the 'I've got a secret' grin that graced the latest Derrick Storm adventure. His shorter haircut was incredibly sexy.

* * *

Detective Katherine Beckett sat outside of the New York Palace Hotel breathing. Every exhale swirled a pattern of fog on the windshield. Except when the obfuscation became too thick and she had to wipe the opaque windshield with the end of her scarf, she held onto the steering wheel with both hands even though she was parked, at the proper ten and two placement. She held onto the wheel as if it were her only link to salvation. Of course, she had seen his articles: it seemed like he was in the gossip columns every other day. She didn't believe that he behaved the way they had described. A playboy, a love 'em and leave 'em Lothario, a womanizer, a party boy ever since his second divorce months ago… _'God, second?'_ she questioned and ran her mind through the facts that she personally knew by heart from his website, articles and his police record.

He had a record. The revelation had shocked Kate; he seemed so nice, so decent both times she'd met him. She wondered briefly if she had misread him, but decided that the tabloids and the police reports were obviously inflamed and erred. The man she met: the one she had thought and fantasized about, and whose caring face had greeted her every time she picked up one of his books or when she read another author's work, she imagined he'd watch (jealously) from her shelf. That man would never have behaved the way the reports described.

A limo pulled up and stopped at the red carpet. The photographers and reporters stopped their idle conversations and turned expectantly to the ostentatious display of his wealth, their attention captivated by the rear door, waiting for the author's appearance. Kate's heart seized still as she held her breath in expectation along with the rest of the throng on the sidewalk.

The driver, clad in the stereotypical crisp black suit, complete with hat denoting his position, reminded her of _The Green Hornet's_ Kato, sans mask, quickly skipped around the back of the limo and expertly opened the rear door in one smooth motion. An older red headed woman took his proffered hand and stood first, she looked vaguely familiar to Kate, but she couldn't place her. She was followed by a young teen-aged, red headed girl who squinted and shaded her eyes at the onslaught of camera flashes. She was quickly pulled under the protective arm of the older woman, much as a mother hen would her chick.

Kate recognized the girl as the waif that had been her coloring companion in San Francisco. Alexis was his daughter. When Kate spent time with her she had only been five or six. It had been nearly a decade since that pleasant encounter and the teenager surely wouldn't remember her. A statuesque woman in an expensive suit stood up from the door next and smoothed the lines of her jacket. Kate thought she might have seen her pinched and exasperated expression before and she bit her lip as she tried to place her.

"She was with him in San Francisco," she exclaimed to her empty car. She sheepishly lowered her eyes to the car's interior, silently apologizing for her outburst. She surveyed the detritus of her addiction: take out coffee cups littered the floor and made a mental note to clean it up. "Oh God!" she cried, horrified. She might have to escort Richard Castle to the twelfth in the middle of all the trash.

She checked the red carpet and stared. The woman who was with him three years ago, his wife, Gina stepped out of the vehicle. The long-suffering countenance, the same she wore three years ago, was still present. Kate wondered if she ever wore a different look, but just as the thought manifested itself, Gina smiled broadly and congenially as she walked toward the many cameras and reporters, extending her hand.

"I thought he divorced her," she mumbled, while stretching to reach the numerous paper and Styrofoam cups on the passenger side floor. Frowning, she watched the door of the limo. It seemed to take hours for everyone else to exit when in fact, she checked her father's watch, only a few minutes or so had passed since the limo arrived. Kate inhaled and mentally shook herself. It was surreal: she was waiting to see her favorite author so she could question him about murders that happened to take after his books. She was the only one who made the connection. She had to remind herself continually that she was there in an official capacity.

She reached for the cup the farthest from her seat, her fingertips just grazing the drinking hole at the top of the molded brown plastic cover, when she heard the limo door slam shut. She looked up over her dashboard as the shiny black Lincoln was pulling away. Kate looked back at the red carpet and still saw the women who had exited the car, but not the author. She looked back to the rapidly diminishing vertical taillights of the limo. "Shit," she cursed aloud as she tossed the cups into the back seat. _'Was it possible that she'd missed him and he was already inside the hotel?'_ she asked herself.

She sighed and acknowledged her growing disappointment and apparent incompetency. She should have sent the boys or unis to pick him up: they wouldn't have been so worried about the state of cleanliness of their cars or overcome by memories of their encounters with their favorite author.

"Stupid," she admonished herself and the remaining unsuspecting and innocent coffee cups were shoved into a Comicadia 'Free Comic Book Day' labeled bag she was using for her trash. She vainly checked her make-up, which she applied when she took a quick detour to her apartment before she made her way to the hotel.

Another car pulled up: a flashy red Ferrari. The top was down; Kate observed and judged the occupants to be either, crazed or attention-seekers. It was March: technically winter was all but over in New York, but its icy fingers still gripped the city, occasionally blowing bone-chilling gusts overwhelming the tiny newborn semblances of spring and warmth. She silently shook her head at the driver's conceit: as if the weather had no hold on him as it did on the rest of the city. Kate pulled the scarf tighter around her neck. She looked in the mirror at the woolen accessory. Pulling it off her neck, she threw it in the back seat and groaned.

She returned her gaze to the red carpet once again and her breath left her body. He was there. Richard Castle stood posing for the paparazzi wearing a black suit and a blonde, vaguely Barbie-doll shaped arm ornament.

Kate watched as Barbie whispered in his ear, as he smiled and kissed her cheek and then as he swatted her ass as she walked away from him and into the hotel.

He looked different from the kind man she'd spoken to three years previously, visually, anyway, as if the past three years had been rough, like he'd partied hard or like her dad liked to say, _'He was rode hard and put up wet.'_ Her dad was never a cowboy or had ever owned or even ridden a horse. She had seen the same exhausted features on countless inebriated or stoned D. U. I.s she'd seen processed throughout her years as a cop.

She shook her head and climbed out of her vehicle. She hadn't let the tabloids and gossip mongers change her opinion of him for the past three years, nor would she let circumstantial evidence color her opinion now.

She started across the street as the author walked through the door of the hotel. He stopped long enough to pick up a flute of champagne on his way to the ornate and elaborate staircase at the far end of the lobby, shaking hands, flirting and kissing cheeks or pinching others along the way. Kate recognized three other best-selling authors in the lobby who greeted the man of the evening with enthusiastic man-hugs. Kate rolled her eyes as her approach was hindered by the rather impressive security guard stationed at the doors.

"Ma'am," he said politely, although he eyed Kate from her chest to the floor and back again at the same time. Kate already hated him for his patronizing attitude and clearly less than adequate vision if he thought she was anywhere near being old enough to be correctly addressed as 'ma'am'. He continued, "Are you on the list?"

She flashed the gorilla in the off-the-rack suit her tin and a scorching gaze that would fuse sand. "Detective, and no, I'm not on your list, but there is a material witness in a homicide case inside and I need to speak to him now." Her tone and assertiveness took the man by surprise: no doubt the gold detective shield in her palm and gun at her hip had something to do with his sudden respectful reformation and new found inclination toward cooperation.

"Yes, ma'am…uh, miss…uh, Detective," he stumbled over his words and Kate smiled sweetly as he unhooked the velvet rope separating the throng from the in-crowd.

* * *

She passed through the horde of party goers searching for the author, a glimpse of his head above the gathering or the lilt of his smooth baritone voice bouncing off the lavish palatial décor of the lobby.

People seemed to be headed for the staircase and soon she was moving along with them with no real control over her own direction at all. Kate was neither comfortable nor accustomed with the situation. She lacked control of her circumstances and her surroundings and possible outcomes. She kept her hand on her weapon during the steady rise from the lobby to the ballroom where the party was to be held.

Some pushed through to the bar and some to the atrium on the far end of the hall. Her heart leapt as she spotted him a scotch glass in one hand, a different blonde from Barbie: this one was strawberry-blonde, in the other. Kate nicknamed her Midge.

The crowd was thicker in the ballroom than it had been in the lobby. She supposed it was because that it was where the writer happened to be mingling. She caught another sight of him by the bar. Still with Midge, he leaned over a shorter brunette, so dubbed 'Steffi,' by Kate, who grabbed him by both of his ears and kissed him full on the mouth.

Kate was taken aback when he dropped Midge's hand and kissed the brunette back, fully. He ended the kiss, leaned near Steffi's ear and said something that had her blushing furiously right before she grabbed his ass with both hands and pulled him toward her, crashing their hips together. She pulled the pen from his hand and scribbled something on his palm, sealing it with another kiss. Midge watched, but Kate could tell she was only slightly put out.

She followed the author's progress as he made his way to the atrium. He stopped for handshakes and more inappropriate kisses from voluptuous women: in order, Val, Cara, Tracy, and Summer: all of Barbie's friends. He signed copies of books and various body parts, always leaning in close after and whispering in their ears, always eliciting a giggle and another brush of their lips. A promise.

Kate could feel her blood pressure rising as she watched him demean and consume her gender as playthings, moving from one to another across the crowded floor as if they were in some demented, oversexed and perverted version of Frogger. She wished she had a tractor-trailer as she watched him grope another young woman, who looked like she should be studying for a tenth grade biology test, not becoming a health class case in point.

* * *

She stopped following him when she reached the bar, ordered an iced water, ('Yes, just water!' she reiterated to the incredulous bartender), and watched as he exited the ballroom surrounded by fans toward the atrium, leaving her expectations, fantasies and indulgent fangirl thoughts and desires mixed in amongst the litter of fallen hors d'oeuvres, empty wine glasses, used paper cocktail napkins emblazoned with _Storm Fall_ and utter chaos left in the swath of the Castle storm that had enveloped and obliterated her apparent fictions about the fiction author.

She was devastated. It was true: it was all true. The sweet, caring father and attentive husband had disappeared in the past three years. Her silly schoolgirl fantasies lay crashed and burning at her feet. She became irrationally mad at her mother, placing the blame for even knowing about him at her feet…at her grave. Kate looked around at the essentially deserted ballroom, blinking back the tears threatening to fall. She scoped out a ladies room and headed there to compose herself.

Tears of guilt and disappointment dropped silently from her widened eyes into the basin. She was no prude, she'd lived in the city all her life and although she hadn't driven on it, she had seen the fast lane, the endless party that just seemed to move venues and swap-out musicians and thousand dollar dresses that most of the people there attended, but to see him act like every other page-six publicity hound and worse, to see him treat women as if they were caramels in an over-priced box of chocolates was something she couldn't forgive. She didn't stop to consider if she was judgmental or if she had jumped to conclusions. She'd seen the evidence herself. She was a good cop and an even better detective and had been an eyewitness to his lack of character or morals or respect. She sighed as she tossed the wet paper towel into the bin and stared at her reflection. Kate had seen many celebrities succumb to the pressures of their fame. She herself had arrested several of those same celebrities as a beat cop and while working vice. He had fallen. She wondered what had happened to his daughter. She'd seen her arrive, but sincerely hoped she wouldn't have to add endangering a minor to the list of depraved charges already forming in her mind.

* * *

A loud eruption of applause from the atrium caught her attention as she exited the ladies' room. The crowd was slowly reentering the ballroom and she could only assume that her quarry would join them soon.

He appeared several minutes later, his ex-wife walking in front of him. She handed him something, which he put in his jacket pocket, and he picked up another champagne flute from a passing tray. A book was thrust in from the side by a girl who Kate assumed was a teenager. He signed it, barely glancing at the fan and continued what seemed to be a heated discussion with his ex. She said something with a predatory smile on her face and the color drained from the author's. He smiled, but it wasn't warm or happy. It looked to Kate as if he was about to take her head off. Maybe Richard Castle could be considered a suspect after all.

She watched him as he moved past his ex-wife, apparently launching a last insult or cut as he sauntered away. He downed the rest of his wine before he headed to the bar, a scowl along with pursed lips and a tightened jaw, now firmly implanted on his face. He stopped at the bar, where his daughter was sitting with the older woman who had arrived in the limo and who Kate had eventually identified as his mother: Broadway actress Martha Rodgers. He kissed his daughter perfunctorily on the cheek before circling back and speaking to his mother. He didn't look happy: he looked annoyed. His mother swirled away waving vaguely behind her and he spoke to his daughter. The bartender sat two flutes of champagne down on the bar and he lifted one to his lips and set the other in front of his daughter. Luckily for him, the teen refused. Kate decided that the time had come to take him in for questioning. The more she witnessed the further down he fell and she just couldn't watch it any longer.

Her heart betrayed her resolve and her breathing picked up. She wasn't sure if she wanted him to recognize her or not. He was still her favorite author, she was still a fan girl, but that night she was first and foremost, a detective investigating the homicide of a young woman, a homicide that the man with his back to her had already committed in his book.

She stepped directly behind him at the bar. "Richard Castle?"

He spun while whipping out a pen from his pocket, "Where would you like it?"

Kate flashed her shield, which she held tightly to mask her trembling fingers, "Kate Beckett, NYPD," she said flatly as she watched his eyes for any spark of recognition. They flitted from her eyes to the piece of gold metal in her hand. Either the bright inquisitive and playful blue eyes she'd remembered were dulled by his debauched lifestyle or the amount of alcohol he'd consumed along with god knew what else that evening. Maybe she should order a tox screen. She saw no flicker of recollection. She inhaled and continued, "We need to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight."

His daughter's head appeared above his shoulder and whispered, "That's new," as she whisked away his pen.

Kate briefly met the girl's eyes. Alexis scowled for a second and then kissed her father on the cheek before resuming her studies.

* * *

"Can you at least tell me where we're going?"

Detective Beckett sighed, "As I have stated numerous times before Mr. Castle, we are going to the twelfth precinct. You are a material witness in a murder case." _'And perhaps a suspect,'_ she added to herself.

"Does that mean you're going to interrogate me? I can be a naughty boy. Oo, maybe you'll have to do a strip search." He had picked up her discarded scarf and wrapped it around his neck.

Beckett rolled her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since she'd deposited him in the back seat of her cruiser.

He surveyed his surroundings. Definitely not as comfortable or clean as the limo or his own Ferrari. "Are you collecting used coffee cups for some sort of charity event? Oh! Were you on some sort of extended stake out? Did you get the bad guy? Was there police brutality?" He flicked his eyebrows. " _You_ could abuse me anytime. Have you ever used your Taser for sex? How about your handcuffs?"

"Oh my God, will you just shut up?" she yelled from the front seat, abruptly ending the endless stream of shit falling out of his mouth. She seethed as she asked herself, _'How could someone who wrote such moving scenes and understood subtext and that what was left unsaid is just as important as dialog as well as Austen, be such an ass?'_

"Aren't you supposed to read me my rights?"

She looked in her rear view mirror. "I haven't arrested you…yet."

He licked his lips. "Hot."

It was quiet in the car for all of twenty seconds. "Is it true that anything thing I say will be held against me?"

She eyed him suspiciously in the mirror before nodding, but quickly adding, " _If_ I had _actually_ arrested you."

He smiled greasily and leered at her. "What was your name again? Because I only want to say that."

Luckily she'd just pulled into a spot I front of the precinct. "Look," she said turning around. "I need to ask you some questions about a murder and I appreciate it if you'd keep the come-on and pick-up lines to yourself."

He stared at her and narrowed his eyes. "You look familiar. Have we met before?"

She looked down and inhaled a staccato breath. He'd just confirmed what she'd feared. He didn't remember her, just as he hadn't remembered her mother. To him, they were both just two more nameless faceless fangirls who waited in line to meet him.

"Come on," she said, opening the back door. "I'll get you a coffee. I'd like you sober for the interrogation. Maybe I'll be able to stand being in the same room with you then."


	8. True Fans

_A/N - I truly appreciate all the fantastic response to this story. You've all made it better by your encouragement. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I will respond to the reviews, but thought writing was the higher priority. I do appreciate all of your kind words._

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Fan Girl**

 **Chapter 8**

 **True Fans**

"I thought you said that this was going to be a temporary thing."

"Define temporary," he said slowly and contemplatively. "Temporary like Toni Basil's recording career…"

"Who the hell is Toni Basil?"

"The oh _Mickey_ , you're so fine, Toni Basil," he chanted.

Bob shook his head at his friend's antics.

"Or temporary like the ten seconds we just wasted speaking about a singer who was popular for little more than those ten seconds. While we're at it, couldn't everything in life be defined as temporary? The cosmos, the precious few seconds we have with family…"

"Seconds?"

"Cosmic seconds, yes. Keep up."

"I'm keeping up, jackass. What does all of this have to do with whether or not you stay at the twelfth precinct?"

"I'm getting there: I'm a writer, remember? I've got to set the background."

"Well while you're getting there; pour this mayor some more of the old mayor's finest." Bob Weldon looked around his best friend's cellar office and shook his head in disbelief. "I still can't believe you actually bought this place."

Castle shrugged. "It's a part of history and, more importantly, a part of my history. I just couldn't sit on the sidelines and watch it become another characterless, cartoonish bar. Not a place where everybody knows your name, but a place where you could have namelessly gone and drowned your sorrows, alone and desolate with only a talking animatronic moose head above the bar."

"Jesus, Ricky: you really know how to depress a guy. I'm looking through the rose-colored glasses that Jesse wears when he spews all of that good news to the masses. Everything is shiny and beautiful here in my city."

"Jesse spews _apple_ colored views."

Bob shook his head, all but ignoring the pun. "Clever. Maybe you should be my campaign manager. I'd fire Jesse right now if I thought I could get any real work out of you."

"You're a freaking politician, Bob and you say I don't work? Besides, I would have to be your speechwriter. I already work in fiction, not a big stretch there."

"You have no idea how hard this is," he sighed as he settled back into the soft deep red leather couch and took another healthy swig of the Saint Miriam's, letting the warmth slide down his throat and into his chest. It was barely the beginning of March and the winter hadn't yet gone back to Canada.

Castle grinned and chuckled under his breath as he propped his feet up on the coffee table adjacent to the mayor's size thirteen loafers. From time to time, he had to remind himself that the shoes and the concealed feet contained therein belonged to the mayor of greatest city on Earth, no matter that he'd been his friend longer. Castle rested his head against the back of the wing chair and studied his cohort of many questionable outings, many years and many, many good times. The relative few years in the city's highest office had taken its toll on his friend as evidenced by the accelerated signs of aging around his eyes and a sprinkling of gray amid the dark brown of his beard. He knew it was hard, stressful work. They could joke about it, as they did most things, but the responsibilities were awesome and Bob handled it all like the pro he was. Castle wouldn't want the job; he was barely a competent adult enough for himself and Alexis. There would be no way he could be responsible for a city of eight million.

"So, you were telling me about the cosmos or some other such bullshit like that." Weldon's straight-shooting, focused brain brought Castle's brain back from the ever-meandering path it took.

Castle smiled. "No, I was telling you that everything in life was temporary. Life itself is temporary and too damn short…like a carnival ride. We have to grab the reins of the carousel horse and ride until the lights dim and music stops."

"See? Depressing as shit."

Castle ignored his friend. "That's why I need to stay at the twelfth precinct."

Weldon narrowed his eyes. "You've been there for…what?"

"Nearly two years."

"Don't you have the research done? Hell, I know how you observe people. You must know how many hairs Detective Beckett has on her head by now. Why? Why do you want to continue?"

"I'm…"

"Yeah?"

Castle sighed and ran his hand through his hair before he stood and began pacing. Bob raised an eyebrow and grinned. Something or someone had bitten him hard and he had all the symptoms of that same infection that Bob had seen time and time again: the CIA, the Mafia, the Irish Mob and the underground conspiracy theorists. All groups of people he had to know, to understand and integrate. Ricky always had to get the facts authentic. Did he use his imagination? Yes, but always within the parameters of the facts. His authenticity was what made his stories so good. He took it as a personal failure if someone found an error in his realism.

"Must be a hell of a story," he muttered.

He paused and turned to Weldon, a desperate plea in his eyes. "I don't know yet, but I know I have to find out how it ends." _'Or even if it will truly begin,'_ Castle added to himself as he resumed his pacing.

"Is this still about Detective Beckett?" Bob assessed the man creating a rut in the antique floorboards.

Castle stopped and turned to face Weldon. "What do you mean by still?"

"Ricky, the whole reason you gave me two years ago when you begged me to let you have the ride-along with her was that she was incredibly hot and a challenge. She didn't fall for your line or your charm the first time you flashed your baby blues at her and you needed to meet that challenge."

"I really was an ass, huh?"

"Was?"

Rick grimaced. "I know her now, well I know more. She's fascinating and so smart and completely badass, not to mention her looks. She's…"

"Everything," Bob finished for his friend. He shook his head and stood. Clapping Castle on the shoulder, he asked, "How long have you been in love with her?"

Castle debated denying and arguing with himself what the damn straight shooter had discovered. He had never been successful at hiding anything from the man except when he draws that last sweet victorious card for an inside straight. Resigned, he sat down on the coffee table and rested his face in his hands. "Would I sound like a cheesy sap if I said forever?"

"Yeah, but that's okay; you are a cheesy sap." Weldon sat next to Castle. "She's the one?"

"God…I'm not very good at recognizing _the one_ , you know?"

"Yeah, I seem to remember being present for at least one of your previous love of your life marriages."

"Shit, Bob. Neither Mere nor Gina was the love of my life. I've never felt this way before. I have to try. She's gone from threatening to shoot me to…well, she thinks of me as her partner now."

"Jesus, Rick: you're not a cop. How can you possibly be her partner?"

"It's unorthodox, I'll admit, but it works. I know that the case closure report Roy put together has made it to your desk. I help."

Weldon made a face. "Remind me to fire Denise and hire someone you can't charm."

"Maybe you should hire Beckett. Look Bob, I just need some time. You know what happened last week. I think I've earned a reward for saving your city."

"That's just what I'm talking about. You should have been up at that quasi-mansion in Southampton with your mother and Alexis. Sooner or later your luck is going to run out."

"You're just wishing for that so you'd win a poker hand or two."

"You're not hearing me. It's dangerous. You're not a cop. You're not trained."

"You sound like Alexis, but you know better."

"Oh, excuse me; you do have training…that's a decade old. You don't even carry a gun…"

"Your rules, not mine."

"As I was saying, you don't carry a gun, so what good is your expert marksmanship?"

"I help in other ways. I beat the shit out of John Raglan's assassin," he boasted proudly.

Bob Weldon had never had a hard time convincing anyone of anything. It's why he excelled in politics. The truth was that he feared for his friend, for both his physical and emotional health. "So, what's your plan? What is this great big plan that will woo the detective into your arms and your bed?"

Castle looked like he'd been slapped. "It's so much more than that. Were you listening earlier? She's my muse and I couldn't walk away from her any more than you could stop shaking hands and kissing babies. I just need to be near her."

"And you think that saturating her in your charm and cheap cologne will sway her opinion?" Weldon leaned back and closed his eyes after taking another sip of the scotch.

"Bob," Castle said quietly.

Weldon opened his eyes to a stricken friend and immediately felt like an ass. "That bad? Really?"

Castle nodded. "If you lock me out, I'll find another way. I'd rather be on the up and up, but if you close that door, I'll find a window. Don't revoke my status…please, Bob," he pleaded quietly. Castle smiled a small grin. "Besides, my cologne is not cheap."

Weldon stared at his oldest friend outside of politics. He'd been there for him in the good times and the bad. Rick was the first to congratulate him on his victories or commiserate with him in his defeats. He was always the first to share his ever-present optimistic silver lining, pick up the pieces and deliver the we'll-get-'em-next-time pep talk. He opened his home, his family and his wallet too many times to count. Likewise, Bob had been there for Rick as well. His author buddy had a propensity for finding trouble and Bob would smooth out the wrinkles or make the errors in judgment go away. Castle had always looked to have a good time: to celebrate life. Bob could count on his friend to drag him to a party or event or even just his living room and lift his mood or remind him that life wasn't always about back-room deals and public appearances and responsibility. Rick was also the first person to tell him when he'd been an ass or made a mistake without sugarcoating or glad-handing because of his title and office. Weldon could count on Castle to be refreshingly honest.

"The question is: whom am I more afraid of, you or your mother?"

"What does my mother have to do with…" Weldon cringed and tried to sink deeper into the leather. Rick frowned. "Did she call you?"

"I think she's just worried. I mean, really Rick. The assassin, the bomb and how about that mess with your school friend?"

"She told you about…?"

"Yeah: look she's really worried."

" _My_ mother?" He narrowed his eyes. "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't be drawn in by her charms again…"

"I know, but…"

"Ever."

"But, but," Weldon spluttered, "She was concerned about you and even made a trip down to City Hall. She brought homemade cookies to everyone in the office."

"Homemade," Castle disallowed, shaking his head. His lips pursed in annoyance.

"What? They were like your grandmother made them.

"I'm sure they were very grandmotherly, except she doesn't bake, not even for her own granddaughter. She would really rather not pay for the emergency room visits…again." Castle shook his head. "Mister Mayor? You've been corrupted with store-bought warm chocolate, a mere sprinkling of flour and brown sugar by a world class red-headed con artist."

* * *

"Um…hi," Castle whispered as he pulled his overcoat tighter around his chest. He flipped the collar up against the early March chilled wind and the winter's icy tentacles, which stroked any exposed skin. He whispered because speaking aloud seemed wrong somehow. As noisy as his city could be, it was quiet and reverential in the small peaceful oasis.

The sun shone through the cracks in March's lion's cloudy gray mane, permitting a halo of light to envelop the place and enliven the monotonous backdrop. Ice splintered from the still frozen blades of yellowed grass beneath his shoes as he alternated from foot to foot in his too thin Ferragamos in an effort to keep warm. A perfect representation of his mind which was vacillating between actually having the meeting or retreating to the warmth and safety of his car and its heated seats. Every crackling and splintering step he took away from his car had him feeling more and more as if he were trespassing, walking over miniscule tributes or diminutive offerings, trampling sacredness in his oversized, overbearing and often-misdirected sense of overcompensation. He could hear and feel his own insignificant offering shattering beneath the weight of his careless shoes as well, evoking disapproval, not the forgiveness and consent he sought. He felt that his very presence disrespected the consecrated ground, frozen or not.

He looked back at the granite. He mumbled an apology for ignoring her while lost in his thoughts. If she had been there, he would have lost big points for his rudeness and probably would have been disregarded immediately, in much the same way Beckett had when they first met.

"I, uh, I should start with…I remember you," he blurted. "I didn't, but then…when I saw your picture it all fell into place. I didn't remember Kate at first either. It took her teasing smile for me to recognize her and to finally place where I'd seen her before." His words to her started to tumble out of his mouth. He needed to be sure she had the whole story. "We had just finished our first case together. I (I'm ashamed to admit), had been an ass to her; well truthfully it wasn't just her: I was an ass to everyone in my life at that time, except Alexis, but I was a special kind of ass to Kate." Castle let his eyes drop to the crystals on the dead Chrysanthemums in the urn attached to the base of the monument. "I don't know why, except that maybe…maybe I was afraid? Not of her…" He smiled and puffed a chuckle within the steam of his breath, rising directly above his head where it joined the rest of the grey dullness. "Okay: a little bit of her. You raised one hell of a bad-ass." He was quiet when he admitted, "I was afraid that I would never write again. I didn't know who I was without that, and I guess I took it out on anyone around me.

"She didn't stand for my bullshit though. I guess she saw beyond the train-wreck my life had become. Johanna, Kate saved me and gave me back the greatest gift anyone could. I can never repay her for inspiring me, for pushing me to be better.

"I forced my way into her world and soon re-discovered you. I am so sorry, Jo. I remember your smile and your quick wit, your understanding and humor. I remember being so nervous the first time we met. Exhausted by my schedule and startled by Paula practically dragging you to meet me, but nervous because someone…you wanted to meet, interview and consider whether I was an acceptable enough human for you to read my book, or worse, if I wasn't.

"For some reason, a good amount of the women in those signing lines, with few exceptions, wanted to meet me, but not usually because of my writing. You'd think that having anonymous women fawning over you would be a huge ego boost, but in reality, it was a detriment. I wanted them to like me because of my writing, as you did, not because of some fan-girl fantasy. Have I mentioned that I'm still ruggedly handsome?" He laughed quietly again.

"Then we met at the park and then again at the café. I'm so sorry I didn't remember you. I meet a lot of people. It's not an excuse – you're a kind and generous person…were a…anyway, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I missed those opportunities," Castle voiced, taking a moment to mourn the what-ifs. "I feel like we could have been friends. I could have slipped you advance copies of my books and you could have been gracious, witty, charming and if you were anything like Kate is, unrelenting and meticulous, holding me to a higher standard. I would have had the best part of that deal and would have been a better writer. I know I'm already a better man for having known Kate.

"When I recalled that Kate stood in line for more time than she should have all for a stupid book, my stupid book, I got the impression that the universe had been nudging us together for years. I was just too indifferent or self-centered to see the clues. I used to think that I had wasted all that time, but after considering, it's better that you and Kate didn't really know me then." He had started pacing between Johanna's marker and the nearest on the left side, belonging to Morris Zimmerman who died, remarkably on Rick's birthday. He grimaced and shivered involuntarily. He walked back to the grave marked Beckett and stared at the cold hard granite for a moment before speaking again. "I would have disappointed you greatly if you had really known me then and you never would have judged me as worthy or ever read any of my books. I just happened to give you a good impression that day at the bookstore. I'm lucky like that." He leaned against the neighboring stone and then remembered where he was; checking to make sure no one had witnessed his disrespectful faux pas. He breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts. "You know, I've often felt that Kate and I are still wasting time, but, and I've given this a lot of thought, I don't think we're ready to be more for each other.

"God, I want more, I hope for more eventually," he admitted. "I hope…I think she will too…someday. We need to nurture our friendship and partnership. I get that and I certainly don't want to lose what we already have. Outside of my daughter's, Kate and my relationship is the most important one in my life. I have truly come to admire and respect her.

"Jo, I know that I've rambled here," he apologized, but then quirked a grin. "You're a very good listener." He clamped three gloved fingers over his mouth as if he'd forgotten a rule about joking about the dead. "I just wanted to let you know that I liked our happenstance meetings. You were a true fan of my work and now I guess you could say that I've become a fan of your work, as well. You raised a remarkable woman. Kate is extraordinary and I'd like to think that, even though our meetings were brief, you would approve of our relationship." He smiled shyly and looked around the deserted cemetery. "I am totally and completely, a head-over-heels fan of your daughter's. I'm sure of it, so wish me luck." He smiled and inhaled a deep cleansing breath, feeling a renewed confidence. He could almost smell the newness of spring in the air as he lovingly brushed the residual snow from the top of the stone before he returned to his car.


	9. Full Circle

_A/N - At the bottom of the chapter._

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Fan Girl**

 **Chapter 9**

 **Full Circle**

She watched him. To be more precise, she admitted: she _stared_ at him.

She lay on her side; her arm bent at her elbow under her pillow and stared at him. Suddenly and uncontrollably she grinned thinking about what she supposed he'd say if he woke up and caught her…staring…at him. _'Full circle, Beckett.'_ She could hear him in her thoughts and imagine the delighted and victorious grin illuminating the room, contending with the sun, which was beginning to peek through the slats of his blinds, bathing the room's deep earth tones in a rosy-golden hue. The only other sound she heard, besides the specter of his voice in her head, was the rhythmic whispers of his breathing. He breathed evenly and deeply, his eyes flitting back and forth under his lids: dreaming.

He arrived back home from a three-week book tour the previous night, having only arrived thirty minutes before she. He was exhausted; he always was after a tour: he had to be 'on' the entire time he was out there. Kate doubted that she could do what he did as successfully as he did without the benefit of homicide. She suggested that he get some rest before they reunited and offered to stay at the precinct later, but he countered that he had three objectives he wanted to accomplish before capitulating to the bone-weary fatigue: spend the evening with her, make love to her and put food in her. They accomplished two out of the three. He had already ordered her favorite Chinese and opened a bottle of Ménage à Trois red. He originally bought the California wine because its double entendre name appealed to his sense of humor, but then found that he and (more importantly), she liked the domestic as much as his favored Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

Given his stated goals, Kate had just about launched herself toward the precinct elevator as soon as she filed her last report. Pressing the button repeatedly (as Castle would) didn't bring the car any faster. The case paperwork, traffic, pedestrians, lack of parking spaces and an impossibly slow elevator all seemed to conspire to lengthen their time apart.

She practically ran through the door and jumped on him when she finally made it home.

Dressed in an opened dress shirt, black vee-neck tee shirt, Iron Man boxers and his lucky Green Lantern dress socks, he extracted himself from under Beckett, then answered the insistent, cadenced and repeated knocks belonging to Tommy, Mr. Liú's eldest son and most trusted delivery boy. Tommy grinned and clicked his tongue while nodding his head slyly as if to say he understood Castle's state of dress and what it meant for the author that evening, as he handed over the bag of Szechuan goodness. Kate could see Castle grin back acceptance and fist bumped the young man before he handed him his tip. Dudes were dudes regardless of background, social or financial status and offered props when any one of them scored. Kate didn't care; they hadn't scored in three weeks.

He barely had the door closed before she pounced on him again and then again.

Kate smiled bashfully and even though there was no other soul who could witness her embarrassment, well none who was conscious, she blushed. They were so good together and she wasn't only thinking about the sex, which was phenomenal. They just clicked like placing the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle or twisting the final flick of your fingers to complete a Rubik's cube; discovering the last clue in order to solve a murder. Their connection, while a source of amusement for their friends had resonated deeply within her since the beginning. She's felt the connection even before he began shadowing her when she was only another nameless face among thousands: just one more fan-girl. Of course, she dismissed it then.

She inched closer to him to connect physically. She sighed contentedly as her eyes rode the swirls and dips shaping his right ear. There was a fine whisper of blonde baby hairs covering the shell of his ear that she hadn't noticed before. She hoped that it would take a lifetime to learn everything about him. He once told her that he thought she was a mystery he was never going to solve. In fact, she found that he was a greater mystery than she would ever be and she delighted whenever she discovered a new facet of him, whether it pertained to the larger than life Richard Castle or his more down-to-earth persona, Rick Rodgers. As far as Kate was concerned, there was nothing mysterious about her: she was broken and he healed her. He brought together all the answers she needed, all the missing pieces to fit into her puzzle; he filled the part of her heart she'd lost.

The feeling of finally being complete and whole overwhelmed her, followed quickly by guilt and the ubiquitous remorse that she had squandered his love, lost so much time. Time she could have felt wholly loved if she had let him. Time she could have shown him how very much she loved him because he deserved nothing less. Kate pushed her regrets and self-recriminations down and reached out to brush his bangs back from his forehead. At that moment, she needed to feel tangible evidence that he was there, they were there together now, and she reaffirmed that nothing would ever change that. So she basked in the warmth and moments they'd created the previous night as she re-committed every freckle, every line, every eyelash (his were impossibly long) to memory.

His eyes were no longer flitting as much as they had been and he had the tiniest of smiles on his lips. She felt the familiar stirring when she thought about his lips. His smile had been the first thing she fell in love with, not the smirk, which said I'm an ass or the leer that assumed you were going to fall into bed with him, nor was it that egotistical grin when he was right about something (although the way his eyes lit up excitedly made that one tolerable) or even the simper when spewing outlandish theories. The smile he wore when he beheld someone he loved was the one she adored.

She first saw that smile as he spoke to his daughter in a drafty little bookstore in San Francisco. She didn't want to be there, didn't want to wait in line, didn't want to meet him, didn't want to fawn over him like her fan-girl mother, didn't want to spend time with his adorable daughter, didn't want to gaze into his impossibly blue eyes, and didn't want to laugh with him or to admit that maybe he wasn't so bad. Worse yet, she didn't want to admit that she'd become a fan. Of the genre: yeah, right. No one believed that: she didn't even believe that. The evidence put forward indicated that she was indeed a Richard Castle Fan Girl, but she had continued to deny and fight the allegations. She fought so hard for so long and now - well now, for the life of her, she couldn't remember the compelling reasons she had to hold him at arm's length.

The bookshelves in her apartment would attest to her fanaticism: she owned a variety of novels, historical fiction, and non-fiction, classic and even some modern romance, but his books ( _all_ of his books, multiple copies of some titles) were at eye level in the center of the shelf: even there at the loft where she had moved a good portion of her belongings. Most couples, who chose to live in one or the other's home, would naturally make room in a dresser, the closet, and bathroom, but he also made room in his bookcases. No small feat: his bookshelves were full, brimming with not only his own titles but also a myriad of others ranging from classical literature to bra-buster romances. She had arranged her copies of his books in the same way: next to the uncracked, pristine, fresh from the printer, first-edition copies of his books, stood her well-worn, dog-eared, but very well loved copies of his books. He'd cleared an entire wall to make sure there was room for her collection. When she asked him about it, he simply replied that their relationship was built on the books and that she revered them as much, if not more than he did and her collection needed a home, in their home, not in storage.

"Creep…creep-eee, Beck…," he murmured. She startled from her contemplation. He hadn't opened his eyes, breathed differently, indicating wakefulness, or moved at all except his mouth, which still wore a barely-there grin teasing her with the possibility of a full-blown smile.

"Rick?" She whispered the question. It was entirely possible that he was talking in his sleep: he tended to do that. It might be a dream leaking from his subconscious and she didn't want to wake him. Her stomach, on the other hand, felt no such compunction to let him sleep as it rumbled loudly. She clamped her hand over the offending racket. They had accomplished two of his objectives, one of them twice, but eating Mr. Liú's delicious combinations of flavors and textures hadn't happened. She stiffened. Did they put it away or was it still sitting on the small table by the soft leather chair in the living area where he'd dropped it in favor of returning her kisses? She imagined that the red pepper speckled sauce bathing his spicy spare ribs (the recipe that he abandons all decorum and manners for in licking every bit of sauce off his fingertips) is staining the delicate finish of the end table.

Castle blew out a long breath, peppering a slight whistle within it, reminding her of the steam forced heat radiators of her Nona's apartment when she was just a girl. She'd imagined that there was a dragon living just beneath the worn oak floorboards. He smiled and whispered, "Hungry, but there are sharks."

Kate smiled: the man's imagination captivated her, even as he slept. After another loud and protesting gurgle from her stomach, she reluctantly dragged herself away from his warmth to fix them both coffee and breakfast.

* * *

Castle rolled over and blinked, not entirely certain of where he was. After three weeks of sleeping in an average of five different hotels every week, he was entitled to a little confusion. He looked around at the familiar, soothing colors and décor of his own bedroom and sighed. He laid his head back on the pillow and sighed again. He muttered, "I'm getting too old for this shit."

Truly, when he left it had been a stubbornly chilly early spring and now spring had definitely sprung. Trees that were merely festooned in tiny buds had regained their full green display. Mother Nature arrayed in her finest attire. Nearly summer. Wild Storm pre-sales and orders had benefited greatly even though the book wasn't due out for another few weeks.

Castle sat up abruptly. "I'm home," he exclaimed as if discovering the Ark of the Covenant, but without the terrible German accent.

"Beckett?" he called as he stumbled out of bed. "Oh God: what is that heavenly smell?"

Her boyfriend was rumpled and she had to suppress a grin. His hair stood out straight on the top and on one side of his head but stuck matted and flat to the other. The normal morning scruff was heavier than usual. Paula insisted that he sport the unshaven look on tours. It made him crazy not to shave. When he first started shadowing her it was a part of his normal public persona, but she had mentioned that she liked his smooth cheeks and jaw one day, after he'd had an appointment with his attorney. She hadn't seen the scruff since, unless he went on tour. His robe hung loosely off his shoulders; the dark denim blue robe had never fit him well, but since the loss of weight that always resulted from the road trips, it looked as if he was a little boy wrapped in his dad's bathrobe. His black tee shirt under the open robe held multiple creases: it looked like he slept in it, but she knew that was not the case. He must have picked up the one he wore yesterday from the pile of hastily discarded clothes on the floor of his bedroom, his boxers as well.

"Coffee?" she asked as he approached the kitchen island.

"Please, but that delightful aroma is not only coffee. What are you cooking, Beckett?"

Kate deposited the mug in front of him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "So much better than hotel colored and flavored water: thanks." She slid the bottle of cream toward him as well as his sugar bowl. A drop of cream and two half-spoons of sugar went into the mug and he swirled it around and then held it up to his nose, before drinking deeply. A smile played on his lips as he set the mug down.

"Do you two want to be alone?" Kate asked, unable to keep her smile from bursting forth.

"Ha ha, funny. You don't know how good this is." He held his cup cradled next to his heart. "Compared to that…that sludge you get on the road."

"There's nothing wrong with hotel coffee, Castle, especially the type of hotel you stay in: you're just spoiled."

He shook his head. "You don't have a clue until you've been denied this heavenly nectar for weeks. The first week, you bargain with yourself. You say that it's not so bad. You make deals with yourself that if you just choke down the tepid, colored water, you can find a place for good coffee later. Only later never comes because you're so busy, you can't escape. You say that you'll go without, but quickly find that you need the heart-pumping caffeine to meet your obligations. You capitulate. The second week, flavor withdrawal sets in: it's not pretty and you begin to consider substitutes, different addictive substances. I actually started smoking cigars once."

"Ew," she commented.

"Tell me about it. I was sick for a week: had to cancel the rest of that tour." He took another long swallow and smiled as he set the mug down. "By the third week, you'd sell your daughter for a decent cup of coffee. Alexis would fetch an extremely high-quality brew. By the end of the tour, you can think of nothing else besides the sweet release of your heartache and longing when you're finally able to reconnect with that which you love." He raised his mug in a salute.

"Oh, brother."

He shook his head. "You just have no idea."

"You have the best coffee here and you consider everything else second rate. I still say you're just spoiled."

"Then count yourself among the spoilers, Detective."

Kate's heart skipped a beat. How could he so casually throw something like that out there? She closed her eyes, again thanking whatever forces brought them together. She turned back to the stove

"Kate? You okay?" His voice was directly behind her and before she could turn, he snaked his arms around her waist; his chest pressed to her back. She sighed and relaxed back into his embrace. He held her for a moment before spinning her in his arms. He tilted her head to him. "What's going on?"

"It's nothing…I guess I just missed you."

He narrowed his eyes. "Uh huh." He breathed deeply. "What else have you got cooking in the pan? Is that an omelet?"

She nudged him away to sit at the table where she brought him his breakfast.

"A s'morlette?" he asked delightedly. Kate giggled. "You hate s'morlettes."

"I don't hate them, Castle; I just prefer veggies and ham in my omelets." She watched him take a bite, watched the look of bliss cross his face: it was ridiculous and she smiled wider. She'd seen that look before, many times and none of them had anything to do with eggs or graham crackers or chocolate. _'Oh chocolate,'_ she thought. Yes, chocolate had been a contributing factor for that blissful face before.

"This is great," he said, barely comprehensibly. He swallowed followed by a swig of coffee. "How's your boring breakfast?"

"Mine and perfectly fine."

"Thanks for this, Kate."

"Don't make me regret it," she warned him, a teasing glint in her eye.

She watched him enjoy his breakfast. He looked so tired after a tour. Usually, she didn't miss the nine-year-old-on-a-sugar-rush, but sometimes she longed for the energy, both he and she could use it.

"So tell me about the tour. Any crazy fans?" They spoke every night while he was gone, but he always saved the best stories so he could tell them to her in person. He loved watching her reactions.

"A couple, but they just couldn't help themselves, all this rugged handsomeness so close."

"So it was insanity, huh?"

He chuckled, "I guess." He took another bite of his breakfast and Kate suppressed a grin when his eyes rolled up into his head again.

He told her many stories of varying fan devotion, a couple of arrests (people being people, he explained) and a couple of uncomfortably overly familiar women. Kate scowled.

"Most people like the new character," he said, casually, while sipping his second cup of coffee from the sofa, his feet up on the coffee table, at Kate's insistence.

"What new character?" Kate called from the kitchen. She turned around with the dishtowel draped over her shoulder, her hair flopping in front of her eyes.

"You're adorable."

"Castle," she huffed, "what new character?"

"Oh well, Gina wanted me to write a preview of the next Nikki. I was against it…"

"You were loudly against it a couple of months ago," she interjected.

"Well yeah, you know how much a story can change from inception to actual publication," he paused while Kate nodded. "So we came to a compromise: I write characters, uh kind of like the character studies I do when…"

"Every time we go out, anywhere and everywhere. What, you must have an entire drawer full of slips of paper, cocktail napkins, playbills all with scribbled down characters, right?"

He nodded, "Yeah. Anyway, I take them and plunk them down into a scene with Nikki or Rook or Derrick and we hand them …uh, the booklets, out to the people standing on line. Sort of a preview, but with disclaimers that they may or may not be used in an upcoming Heat thriller."

"Cool. Is this a Mata Hari you saw at the market?" He shook his head and narrowed his eyes at her. "No? How about the investment banker who was really a double agent? The coffee had cyanide if I recall."

"Very funny and mock if you must but that's how the characters are born: my keen observational skills."

"Well, hey keen observer, you're about to spill your coffee." He had his mug balanced on his thigh, loosely hanging on to the handle. He jerked his hand keeping it from sloshing onto his pants, but overcompensated and spilled it onto the sofa cushion instead.

Kate hopped to the kitchen and threw a cloth to him. He mopped up his mess.

"Anyone I know?" she asked as she slid down the back of the couch next to him again.

"Who?"

"Your character: the new one that most people liked."

"Oh…um yeah, actually you do."

"Did you finally cave and give Perlmutter a character?"

"He doesn't need any help from me. He's already a character and I don't think I could write ass as well as he lives it."

"Rick," she admonished, "he's not that bad."

He scowled. "Easy for you to say; you're Detective Beckett, not Defective Castle."

Kate bit her lip as her eyes widened. She must have missed that one.

He caught her expression and stated, "You're not allowed to laugh at Perlmutter's jokes, especially if they're at my expense."

"It's pretty good, though," she mumbled, staring intently into her mug.

Castle smiled and stretched, depositing his refilled mug on the table behind him. "Yeah, he must have paid good money to a comic somewhere."

"So not Sidney Perlmutter."

"Nope."

"Then who?"

"She's an attorney…"

"Oh, um …Hard Candy…Candace Robinson?"

"No, uh Kate, I based a character on your mom," he revealed quietly.

"My…" Kate felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. "Castle? How could you do…"

"Calm down…" He enveloped her hands in his. "Shh, just let me explain." His thumbs started moving, making tiny circles on the backs of her hands. Her head was down; her hair hiding what she was feeling, from him. He dropped her hand and reached under her chin, tilting her head up.

"Are you with me?"

Kate nodded.

"Okay. When Gina asked me to come up with a character, I had a hard time choosing which character, as you have noted, I have a drawer full…and a filing box in my closet. Anyway, I was on the plane…" Kate raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. "Yes, I procrastinated. I seem to recall someone was not letting me out of her site the week before I left." That earned him a glare. "I was thinking about my career, how many people I've seen, people who would wait for hours…" He had a dubious look on his face as if he still couldn't believe people liked his work well enough to wait on line. "Fan girls," he raised his eyebrow and leered, "Fan boys, too." He shuddered. "At any rate, I started thinking about my fans. Do you know that I met your mom?"

Kate nodded slowly. "You met me, too."

"I didn't remember having met you at that signing in San Francisco until after the Tisdale case."

"Our first case? How come you've never said anything? God, you were so different—you were such an ass."

"So I've been told. I remembered your mom after Esposito gave me your mom's file."

"Espo gave you that? He denied being involved at all. Oh, he is so dead."

"Kate, it's kind of water under the bridge at this point, don't you think? I was sitting in the park studying the file and a family was flying a kite. It reminded me of our meeting in the park. I met her a couple of times after that too. Did you know she met Alexis?"

"Yeah, she told me after I colored with her." Kate still had the Beauty and the Beast coloring page pressed between the pages of a Richard Castle thriller. "She loved you, you know?"

"She liked my work," he corrected.

"No, she genuinely loved you. She'd get all excited about a new book or appearance and," she chuckled. "I knew your age, your birthday, your favorite color and flavor...before I finished middle school."

"That's a little creepy."

"No, it's a lot creepy. Oh God, she embarrassed me."

"Oh and thanks for making me sound like a dirty old man. Middle school," he muttered in an affected old-man voice. His eyes widened and he salaciously added, "Knee socks."

Beckett gave him the expected eye roll and placed her hand on his chest. She let the sure, steady beat of his heart ground her. "She was the epitome of a fan girl, Rick. She loved your work and she had a crush on you."

"How'd your dad feel about that? The crush, I mean."

"He took it in stride. He let her have her fantasies and the truth was that he had a man crush on every single Met. They were both very secure in their marriage. Now, tell me about the character."

He cleared his throat and began, "Hannah Dougherty. She's a defense attorney; tough as nails, but soft when and where it counts. She fights for the voiceless, the hopeless causes, and the forgotten. She's divorced, but still in love with her husband. They never had kids." Castle went on to paint a picture of this woman's personality, her history, and world, which fit neatly into Nikki and Rook's. She was strong and smart and had a motherly affinity for a certain female detective, but also had a previous working relationship with Rook.

Kate watched his eyes and hands as he described Hannah and smiled. "You're in love with her," she interrupted.

"What?"

"You love this Hannah character almost as much as you love Nikki," she teased.

Rick was quiet. There was none of the usual banter he'd whip up to defend himself, none of the denials or redirection. He kept his head down and stared at his hands.

"Rick?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "Yes, I love this character almost as much as I love Nikki." He raised his eyes to hers, his confession hanging in the air, dancing in the firelight. "She's based on your mom, how could I not? The readers may see Hannah Dougherty, but I see Johanna Beckett. It's just the same as when the world reads about Nikki, I can only see Kate."

"Rick…" Kate began, but he lifted his fingers to her lips.

"You mom may have been my fan girl archetype of, but I'm hers," he frowned and then blinked, "her fan boy, I mean. I'm yours too, Kate. I always have been."

* * *

A/N - Thank you all for coming with me on this unusual journey. If you are familiar with my stories, you know that I like writing about the back stories and histories of our favorite characters. Writing about Johanna's love for Rick's books was daunting but too enticing to ignore.

Thanks to the 76 readers who made this story a favorite and the 216 who followed. A very special thank you to everyone who took the time to leave a few words in reviews and personal messages. Reviews let me know that I'm on the right track and have gotten these very well known characters' voices right.

Here's a shout out of thanks to Operaluvr, madcrafter72, 12precinct42344, FuelDH206, Manxkid, concreteangel16, JustAWriterWannaBe, Nancy S, JustAWriterWannaBe, life's a mystery, TORONTOSUN, oldmoviewatcher, Purple Satin, ebfiddler, GT500RonSmith, Garrae, JAG'ed Bones in the Casckett, CharacterDriven, GotchaYouLilDirtbag, 2.0Always47, Perspex13, Aalon, hfce, southerngirl1, angnerea, Rori Potter, ipreferwestside, cate78, txgal2015, LittleLizzieZentara, theputz913, shadowinthedust, oldmoviewatcher, BigKahuna, Maryrose1123, Krystalslazz, teaser, LindaInDC, coyotepup4, Rori Potter, lkwill39, , castle1701, phoenixi77, dkfan, Turretwithaview, CKRose, wendykw, Shutterbug5269, , islandjamie, Dominic Flandry, Rae, Jethro25, , fracas, MaineZoe, KB4RC, Hamlet 77, mobazan27, Chkgun93, SelimPensFiction, AnnieRus, MaineZoe and the anonymous guest reviewers.

I truly appreciate all of you.

~GeekMom


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